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Sctertce JtcHoM

THE MAqA!Z.)NE Of

THE WIND

BLOWS FREE

a no>velet

by CHAD OLIVER

35- <t

SR c* short story

by Charles Van Daren

C. M. Kornbluth
Richard Matheson
'Avram Davidson

So Big ...we had to

coin a new word for it

YOU'll BE

‘gocfied

OUT OF
YOUR SEAT!

•

Swcted

OUT OF
YOUR SKIN!

•

■puiilUd

BY THE

SHEER

TERROR
OF IT ALL!

’^NEWMENDOUS
- So New -
So TREMENDOUS!

PETER PEGGIE

GRAVES • CASTLE

MORRIS

ANKRUM

w'lh

THOMAS B. HENRY
THAN WYENN
JAMES SEAY

desperaiel/
fighting
to keep
alive. . .
to

love!

Produced ond Oirecfed by

BERT 1. GORDON

Screen Play by

Fred Freiberger and Lester

An AB‘PT Picture

At Your Favorite Local Theatre Soon!

An important message
to engineers

from Ford Instrument Co.

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defense projects and newly appropriated
government contracts make room note for
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Environment is creative

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at FICo is a major part of Ford employ-
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send your resume to Philip McCaffrey at
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Employment at FICo is based on a defi-
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which means we offer only positions of
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I 1

I FORD INSTRUMENT COMPANY l>$F-S57 {

I 31-10 Thomson Avo., long (stand City t, N. Y. |

I Gentlemen: Please send me full information |

I about engineering opportunities at FICo. i

I Mo**** - - I

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. Company |

[ Po«A*io« •

'This is a company of engineers"

says Raymond Jahn,
President of Ford In-
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Our promotion policy
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Initiative.

FORD

INSTRUMENT

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DIVISION OF SPERRY RAND CORP.
3MI Tbiasii Avilit, Ling liliiA City, 1, N. T.

TH E MAqAZINt OF

The Wind Blows Free (novelet) by chad Oliver 3

MS. Found in a Chinese Fortune Cookie

by C. M. KORNBLUTH

Your Ghost Will Walk

by ROBERT F. YOUNG

A Trick or Two

by JOHN NOVOTNY

The Unfortunate Topologist (verse) by s. d. gottesman

Life Cycle

by POUL ANDERSON

Sumnifcrland

by AVRAM DAVIDSON

The Literate Monster

by WILLIAM CHAPMAN WHITE

Eithne

by IDRIS SEABRIGHT

You'll Feel Better . . .

by CAROL EMSHWILLER

Recommended Reading (a department)

by ANTHONY BOUCHER

by CHARLES VAN DOREN

When Jack Smith Fought Old Satan (novelet)

by MARY-CARTER ROBERTS 102

The Holiday Man by richard matheson 125

"Coming Next Month" appears on page 73

COVER PAINTING BY MEL HUNTER

- - - -- - - _ |_ - - -- - -

Joseph W. Ferman, publisher Anthony Boucher, editor

The Magazine of fantasy and Science Fiction, Volume IS, No. /, Whole No. 74, JULY, 1957. Published
monthly by Fantasy House, Inc., at a copy. Annual subscription, $4.00 in U. S. and Possessions; $5.00
in alt other countries. Publication office. Concord, N. H. General offices, 527 Madison Avenue, New York, 22,
N. Y. Editorial office, 2643 Dana St., Ber/ieley 4, Calif. Entered as second class matter at the Post Office at

Tights, including translation into other languages, reserved. Submissions must be accompanied by stamped,
self addressed envelopes; the Publisher assumes no responsibility for return of unsolicited manuscripts.

/. Francis McComas, advisory editor; Robert P. Mills, managing editor; Gloria Levitas, assistant
editor; Constance Di Rienso, executive editorial secretary; Norma Levine, editorial assistant;
George Salter, art editor

There are few more stirringly, imaginative themes in science fiction
than that of the generations-ship — the spaceship whereby man may
cross the light-years separating us from the stars, even at speeds much
less than that of light, creating a self-sufficient microcosm in which the
great-great- . . . -great-grandchildren of the original voyagers may at
last make planet-fall. So great a theme is never exhausted, even after
an all-but-definitive treatment by Heinlein. Here Chad Oliver consid-
ers, not the technological wonders of the concept, but its impact upon
the character of one man named Sam — the effect upon him of life in
the Ship and, in turn, his effect upon the Ship’s very existence.

The Wind "^lows Free

by CHAD OLIVER

Have you ever heard, with your
ears or with your soul, the far wind
that stirs the world? Have you ever
felt the deep beat of the sea, the sea
that is the heart of the Earth ?

Samuel Kingsley had never
known these things.

That may have been his trouble.

Samuel Kingsley was born with a
fever in his bones and a fire in his
blood. As a baby, he was difficult.
His parents had to w'ork to keep
their initial joy from changing into
impatient anger. Sam screamed his
head off, he fought his food, he
clawed at his bed. He seldom smiled,
and he was not affectionate.

He was bright enough, of course,
or he would have been destroyed.

His childhood was little better, a
stubborn series of scrapes and bruises
and general mayhem. Sam was big
for his age, and strong. He walked
his own path and fought discipline
like a wild stallion. He had no
friends.

Sam was, in short, a maverick. He
was unbranded. He should never
have happened where he did, and
when he did. But he was there, em-
phatically there, like a burr in the
hide of a long-complacent animal.

He got into his first serious trou-
ble when he was sixteen.

It was the day of his first big
dance. He had to get dressed up in
his best synthetic blue suit, which he
detested, and the whole thing was

very formal and proper, despite the
fact that there were only twelve boys
and girls of eligible age. The girls
were poised and full of giggles, and
the boys were shy, big-footed and
gawky.

Sam liked the girls fine, but danc-
ing bored him stiff.

And he wasn’t shy.

When he was discovered to be ab-
sent from the dance, and it was no-
ticed that a girl named Susan Merrill
was also missing, the police were
called. They found the two young-
sters in one of the dark forbidden
corridors. Susan, a blonde of pleas-
ant proportions for her age, was un-
hurt but hysterical. Sam was defiant.

He knew that he had broken not
one law but two. The black tunnels,
those mysterious caves that bur-
rowed into the hidden recesses of
the Ship, were taboo except to older
crewmen. And it was unheard-of for
a boy and a girl to be alone to-
gether before they were married.

Sam didn’t care. He had acted on
impulse and had no regrets.

Because he was so young, and be-
cause the Council still did not know
quite what to make of him, Sam
got off the hook with a very light
sentence. He was confined to his
house for a solid year, and denied
all privileges. His parents made it as
rough on him as they could, but he
was used to that.

He did his lessons contemptuous-
ly. When he could sneak out at night,
he did so. The lights were low at
night, and he could prowl the black

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

caves all the way to the locked doors
that sealed the people from the rest
of the Ship. If he was unable to get
out of the house, he read books he
had stolen. Like most boys, he liked
best the ones he was not supposed
to read.

Sam liked sex in his books, be-
cause he was healthy and had a nor-
mal curiosity. And something in him
responded to stories of rebels, to
tales of men who struck out on
their own. He dreamed of clipper
ships, their sails taut against the
wind. He dreamed of setting out
into a green wilderness, with only a
gun for company.

There were no seas on the Ship.

There was no wilderness.

And he had been taught that guns
were evil. Not as evil, perhaps, as
that greater evil no one talked about,
but evil nonetheless.

At night, lying in his bed, he
would slam his big fist into the plas-
tic of his wall in an agony of frus-
tration and bitterness, slam it until
the blood smeared his knuckles and
he could taste it in his mouth.

He knew tears, and the terrible
loneliness of a boy who was out of
step. No one ever heard him sob-
bing into the coldness and the si-
lence of the long nights, and no
one would have understood.

By his eighteenth year, Sam had
grown big and raw-boned. Even his
size was against him. He stood a
rangy six-foot-four, and weighed bet-
ter than two hundred pounds. His

THE WIND BLOWS FREE

hair was black and untidy, and his
eyes were dark. He was not a hand-
some man, but he had a strength in
him, a power you could feel.

Sam was marked by his body. At
eighteen, he was by far the biggest
man on the Ship. He stood out like
a pine in a forest of ferns, and he
accentuated the difference by walk-
ing proudly erect, with his head
thrown back.

He was a solitary animal, and
therefore suspect. He was lonely, a
man born out of his time, but he
made no advances to others.

Since he was eighteen, and legally
an adult, he had to take part in the
annual observance of Heritage Day,
on the eighth of February.

Bob Thomas came to get him.

Bob was the natural leader of his
age-group. He was a pleasant-look-
ing boy, with an easy manner and
an unforced politeness that endeared
him to his elders. He was the sort
that accepted life as he found it,
growing up to embody the ideals
and traditions of his culture. He
would have done well in Greece, or
in Rome, or in England in her days
of glory. He did well on the Ship.
In time, he would make the Control
Room. It was as inevitable for him
as breathing.

“Ready for the big deal, Sam.?”

“Sure.”

“We’ll pick up the others and get
on down to the Show, okay.? I think
we ought to be a little early; shows
the big boys we’re on the ball.”

“OK, ^b.” Sam found it impos-

sible to dislike Bob, although hate
came easily to him. Bob was inde-
pendent enough to be a man in his
right, but he kept his independence
within approved bounds. He even
had a sense of humor. And Bob was
big enough to put up a scrap. Sam
respected strength as he respected
few other things. He and Bob had
fought it out once, and Sam had
been hard pressed to win. Much to
his surprise. Bob had not reported
him, and had even lied about the
bruises on his face.

As a matter of fact. Bob was the
closest thing to a friend he had ever
had. There had been a few girls,
but that was different.

They walked down the street, ac-
tually a sort of catwalk, past the
rows of identical cabins that people
called houses. Their footsteps echoed
hollowly in the great chamber.
Above and below them, huge metal
girders spanned the belly of the
Ship. The slope of the Ship’s gray
walls was their heaven and their
earth, as though they lived inside a
vast bowl. Branching off from the
main street, smaller catwalks led to
dark passages — corridors to the Con-
trol Room, to the engine room, the
hydroponics chamber. Some of them
even went Outside, or so it was
rumored. Only the specially selected
members of the Crew could use any
of these passages; there were others
that were taboo to all. And there
were legends, myths, about things
that lived in some of those black
caves. ...

The Show was in the central
square. It was a perfectly ordinary
tri-di theater, and today it was even
more solemn than usual. Men in
full-dress uniforms stood in a double
column through which they had to
march. The priest blessed them be-
fore they took their seats. Patriotic
music flowed from the speakers.

It was all fairly impressive, Sam
supposed, but he was not moved.
Of course, this was the first time he
had been permitted inside the Show
on Heritage Day, but he expected
nothing more than a mild anticli-
max. After all, it was no secret what
went on in there. He had had it
drummed into him as far back as
he could remember.

Still, it ought to be more inter-
esting than the usual pallid fare.

He took his seat in the front row
with the others of his age-group.
Bob had the aisle seat, of course,
and Sam found himself next to Su-
san Merrill. He grinned at her
broadly and she flushed and kept
her eyes on the screen.

There were blessings and speeches
galore. Even old Captain Fondren
made a speech, and the new Navi-
gator was presented to much ap-
plause.

Sam endured it all.

Then the lights dimmed and the
screen glowed.

The character of tlie music
changed sharply. It was grim,
threatening, with an insistent beat
that thumped you in the chest.

Sam was suddenly conscious that

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

he was very close to the screen.

In spite of himself, he tensed, wait-
ing.

The palms of his hands began to
sweat.

It started with a vicious abrupt-
ness, slamming him back into his
seat.

Sound that was more than sound,
sound that tore at you with a solid
physical impact. Light that was more
than light, light that seared your eye-
balls with a flash that mocked the
sun.

Sam screamed with the rest, and
his voice was less than nothing. He
closed his eyes, and the brilliance
hammered through his eyelids. He
trembled violently. He had no mind,
no spirit, no personality. He wasn’t
Sam Kingsley, he wasn’t anybody.
He was just a spot of horror in a
maelstrom of violence, trying to
hang on, trying to ride it out.

The ripping, screeching roar
ceased.

The dead silence flowed in with a
shock of its own.

Sam opened his eyes. At first, he
couldn’t see. There was only a voice,
speaking into the emptiness.

The voice said: This is Earth. This
was your planet. Look, M it now.

Sam looked, his heart thudding
like a wild thing in his chest.

He saw desolation, and death, and
worse than death. He saw great ci-
ties gutted, their buildings shattered,
their streets ripped like tissue paper.
Black windows stared at him with

THE WIND BLOWS FREE

cold stpnc eyes. A few figures that
might have been human stumbled
through the ruins, clawing at their
faces, their shredded clothes, their
blistered bodies.

He saw a land that had been
green, and was green no more. A
sere, scorched desert where nothing
lived, where the very idea of life
was blasphemy. No trees, no water,
no crops.

Nothing.

A red sun glared in a murky sky.

He saw people. He saw men,
women, and children: all dead or
dying. A man, his naked body swol-
len with blisters, leaping into a swim-
ming pool, holding himself under,
gulping at the water like a fish from
a nightmare sea. A blind woman
sitting in what had once been an
automobile, trying to feed a baby
that could no longer move.

Sam could not watch it all. He
was sick and dizzy. He could not
think.

The voice was still speaking:
This is what a war did to your
world. This is what hydrogen bombs
and cobalt bombs and germ bombs
did to your world. T his is what peo-
ple like you did to their own world
when they couldn’t grow up in time.

There was more.

There was enough so that it
rammed its message into your in-
sides. No man could sit through this
and ever forget it. Sam felt himself
scaled down to size, and he dis-
covered that there were bigger
things than Sam Kingsley in the uni-

verse. This is not a finding that any
young man makes with pleasure,
and it was doubly difficult for Sam.

But you cannot argue with obliter-
ation.

The voice said: These are the oth-
er planets that make up your solar
system. These are the worlds we
explored before the end came. These
are the worlds we could reach.

Sam knew of these worlds, knew
them from the history books. But
he saw them now as though for the
first time, saw them through a mist
of despair.

The wind-whipped seas of sand
that were Mars.

The violet desolation that was Ve-
nus.

The frozen forbidding hell that
was Saturn.

All of them.

Hopeless.

There was nowhere in our solar
system that could shelter us. Our
own world was dying. We did what
we could.

We built the Ships,

The Ships filled the screen, im-
mense towers of metal, standing like
colossal silver tombstones in the
graveyard of the world. Of course,
most of them had been built long
before the last poisoning of the
Earth. They had been designed for
man’s greatest adventure, the explor-
ation of the stars. They were not
fundamentally different from the
spaceships that had touched down
on the planets of the solar system.
Unhappily, no fastcr-than-light drive

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

had been invented, in the nick of
time or otherwise, and although
men were working on the secrets of
prolonged suspended animation, this
had not as yet proved practical.

In any event, the problem was
academic.

The Ships had to go.

They were planned to be entirely
self-sufficient. Green plants in great
hydroponic tanks provided the air,
synthetic foods nourished in chemi-
cal vats supplied the means of sup-
port, and an entire Ship formed a
balanced ecological system that
would maintain life for generations
— provided the population remained
stable.

To Sam, it was a strange thing
indeed to see a Ship from the out-
side. The Ship had always been a
curved horizon of gray metal walls,
a tangle of catwalks, a cluster of
houses and tanks and sealed corri-
dors that were dark caves of mys-
tery. From the outside, it was a
thing of beauty, but not the home
he had always known.

Where sunlight and air and roll-
ing land surrounded the Ship on the
screen, there was now only the star-
dusted infinity of space, an empti-
ness more hostile to life than the
polluted world the Ship had left be-
hind. Sam had never seen that dark
sea he sailed, but he had grown up
with the ever-present knowledge of
its existence. For the people of the
Ship, the Outside was death itself.
At night, when the lights were low,
you would lie in your bed and feel

that strangest of seas lapping at the
walls of your room, those icy waves
seeping into your head and your
nerves and your blood. . . .

The^ voice said; You are all the
passengers on a Ship. You who hear
my voice may be the only human
beings left; each Ship follows a dif-
ferent course. It may ta\e centuries
before you reach a world you can
live on, circling a sun I cannot even
imagine. You may never find it. But
remember your Heritage! Remem-
ber that you are men, and remember
what happened to men on Earth!
You must begin again, you children
of Earth. And you must be careful,
you must be wise. If ever you find
hate in your hearts, remember, re-
member . . .

And it happened again.

The light that was beyond light,
the blasting roar that was a crazed
river of sound. The twisted cities,
the poisoned air, the shrieks of the
ruined and the maimed . . .

The screen darkened.

The lights in the Show came on
again.

There was a terrible silence, for
what was there to say? Sam kept his
eyes straight ahead, afraid somehow
to look around him.

Captain Fondren walked up to
the stage, his body bent with years,
his hair gray and lifeless.

“This is your Heritage,” he said
slowly, speaking the ancient ritual.
“We all have a sacred trust to pre-
serve what we can. All who hear my
voice are adults, members of the

THE WIND BLOWS FREE

people. You will conduct yourselves
accordingly throughout your lives.
We dare not fail. It is my duty to in-
form you that this Ship has now
been in space for three hundred and
ninety-seven years. I ask you to join
me in prayer.”

He paused, his old eyes looking
far beyond the Ship.

"The Lord is my shepherd . . .”

The ancient words filled the cham-
ber. It was one of those rare mo-
ments when mumbled phrases and
familiar rituals suddenly become
charged with meaning. The words
were strong words, but Sam could
hardly hear them.

Three hundred and ninety-seven
years, he thought. T hree , hundred
and ninety-seven years.

If they had not found what they
sought in all that time, they would
never find it.

The voyage would never end.

The Ship was all there was.

Sam was impressed by Heritage
Day, impressed and scared. For the
first time in his life, he began to
understand the Ship and the people
who lived in it.

His people were a frightened peo-
ple, a refugee people. They were con-
servative and cautious because they
were trying to survive. They were
existing in a kind of cultural sus-
pended animation, just hanging on
between disaster and a new begin-
ning.

The words of his parents meant a
little more now.

"Sam, Sam, why can’t you be like
the other little boys? Why do you
always want to be getting into trou-
ble? Now, do your homework and
we’ll have a nice synthesteak for you
when you’re through!’ That was
Mom, a colorless, shapeless woman,
going through the motions of life
without ever really living.

And Dad, a big man like Sam,
somehow tragic, somehow defeated
before he had ever gone into battle.
“You can’t change the world, son.
The rules are there for a reason.
You’ve got to do your part, son,
whether you like it or not.”

Sam tried.

He told himself that he had been
a fool. He was to live in the Ship,
and he had only one life to live. Who
was he to think he was better than
other people?

He was assigned work in the main
hydroponics chamber, and he
learned his job dutifully. He forced
himself to be interested in the grow-
ing plants and in the chemical sea
in which they grew. He regulated
the sun lamps and adjusted the
chemical flows with precision. He
grew to like the fresh air of the
chamber and looked forward to go-
ing to work every morning. At least,
the hydroponics chamber was green,
it was alive. The dead air piped in
from the rest of' the Ship depressed
him, and going home at night was
not pleasant.

And yet, Sam was not happy. He
tried to be like the others, but he
found no magic switch that would

shut off his mind. If only the air
would move more, if only it would
flow in something different from its
orderly, measured channels! If only
the wind would blow, if only he
could have clouds and storms and
rivers of rain!

Sam still dreamed at night, and
that was fatal.

He did not marry, and that added
to his discontent. There were times
when his body seethed as though
with fever, times when the thoughts
of women were like a sickness in
his stomach. He tried to fall into
what the people called love, but he
could not. He would try one girl
and then another, and each time
something within him would rebel.

“Sam, try to be nice lif^e the oth-
ers. . .

“Sam, you mustn’t say such things,
they’re wicked. . .

“Sam, you’re so silly. . . ”

For five years, Sam worked in the
hydroponics chamber at the same
job. He did it well. He did it better
than it had ever been done before.

But he was not promoted.

No one ever sounded him out about
joining the Crew, not even Bob.

The other men of his own age
moved on up the scale. Every one of
them was a member of the Crew.
Sam stayed in the hydroponics cham-
ber, and after five years he knew he
was stuck there for life. The Coun-
cil didn’t trust him, would never
trust him. His crime was that he
was different, and on the Ship that
was the worst crime of all.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

One evening, when he was work-
ing late with the plants, he looked
up to see Ralph Holbrook watching
him. Ralph was the same age as
Sam; they had gone through the
ceremony of Heritage Day togeth-
er. Ralph had been a timid boy, but
he was cocky now in his new uni-
form.

He was also a little drunk.

“Still at it, eh Sam.?”

“Looks that way.”

“Like your work?”

“Can’t complain.”

“You’d better like it, Sam boy.”

Sam turned and faced him.
“Meaning?”

“You know what I mean! You
used to think you were really some-
thing, didn’t you? Picking on every-
body, swaggering around like you
owned the Ship. Where are you now,
Sam boy? Where are you now?”

Sam felt the old anger surging up
within him. He clenched his big fists,
bowed his neck. His eyes narrowed.
“Take it easy, Ralph. I don’t want to
hurt you.”

Ralph laughed. “Still think you’re
tough, Sam boy? Still think you can
be a big man with your fists? Come
on, Sami Try something!”

Sam took a step forward, his heart
pounding. He could beat Ralph to a
pulp, and he knew it.

But he stopped.

Striking a member of the Crew?

He didn’t dare.

“Run along, Ralph,” he said qui-
etly. “Mommy’s probably waiting up
for you,”

THE WINO BLOWS FREE

Ralph Holbrook stepped in and
slapped his face with the palm of
his hand.

Sam didn’t move.

Ralph laughed again, turned, and
walked proudly out of the chamber.

Sam’s face was expressionless.

He turned back to his work, did
what he had to do, and left the hy-
droponics room. The dead air
clogged his nostrils as he walked.

There was no outward sign that
anything had changed. He was just
the same Sam Kingsley, big and
awkward and alone, walking home
from work, his footsteps trailing
him with empty echoes.

But Sam had been pushed over
the threshold.

He had not made the decision; it
had been made for him.

The gray hopeless monotony of
his life had been nibbling away at
him for a long time. The future
stretched away before him like a
featureless plain, without life, with-
out color, without purpose.

He was caught in an alien world,
trapped in a Ship in the deeps of
space. There was nothing in that
orderly world for him, nothing but
an existence that was less than life.

Very well.

He had tried to live by their rules,
and had failed.

From now on, he would make his
own rules.

His step quickened, he was more
alert than he had been in years. All
his life he had been fascinated by
those dark tunnels that burrowed

away into the depths of the Ship.
Those forbidden caves were the only
frontiers he had. High officers of the
Crew were the only people who
were ever permitted in most of them,
and it was clear by now that Sam
would never be a member of the
Crew.

He had no real plan. He simply
knew that he had to do something,
and there was only one place to
start.

He ate a hearty meal and took a
nap.

For once, his sleep was untrou-
bled.

He woke up four hours later,
stuffed his pockets with food, and
tested his tubelight. He slipped out
of the house into the gloom of the
sleeping Ship.

His feet were sure beneath him,
and there was nothing clumsy about
him now. Like a shadow, he moved
across a little-used catwalk that
spanned the black belly of the Ship.

A dark tunnel loomed before him.

A faintly glowing sign said: au-
thorized PERSONNEL ONLY.

Sam smiled and stepped into the
cave of night.

He took off his shoes, careful to
make no sounds that might be over-
heard. It was pitch dark in the cor-
ridor, but he was afraid to use his
tubelight yet. Looking back over his
shoulder, he could see the tunnel
entrance framed by the Ship’s night
lights.

He moved along as fast as he

dared, the fingers of his left hand
lightly touching the wall to guide
him. The passage seemed straight as
a needle, and progress was not dif-
ficult. Nevertheless, he felt a ner-
vousness he couldn’t shake off. From
his earliest childhood, he had been
told never to go into one of those
corridors, told of horrible things that
lurked there, waiting.

He fancied that he was old
enough now to discount such nur-
sery tales, but just the same —

Something cold hit him in the
face.

Sam ducked, fell flat on the floor.
He stifled a scream, then managed a
feeble grin as he realized what had
happened. He had run into a door.
He risked the light, and in its pen-
cil beam he saw that the door was
an ordinary metal one, sealing off
the passage. There was another sign
on it: KEEP OUT.

Sam tried the door.

It was unlocked.

He swung it open, stepped
through, and closed it again behind
him. He blinked his eyes. This tun-
nel was larger, and the lights were
still on. It had a well-used air about
it. He hesitated, figuring out his
position. If he turned left, he would
wind up back at the town where the
people lived. If he turned right, he
would be moving toward the bow of
the Ship, toward the Control Room.

Sam went right.

He almost ran along, his shoes
dangling around his neck. He felt
the cold sweat on his body, the anx-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

ious thudding of his heart. It was all
so simple, so like a dream, hurrying
down this silent passage, the Ship
around him like a monstrous beast,
waiting, waiting . , .

What would they do to him if
they caught him here.^ He tried
not to think about it. He just kept
going as fast as he could, his shoes
bruising his chest, the tubelight
gripped in his hand as though it
were a weapon —

He rounded a turn, and stopped
as though he had slammed into a
wall. He held his breath, his lungs
straining, the sweat dripping down
his sides in icy streams.

There were two Crewmen in the
corridor.

It was a moment frozen in time;
it seemed to go on forever. The two
men were seated at a small table,
playing cards. One man was facing
Sam, but his eyes were on the cards
in his hand. Just beyond the table,
there was a blaze of light from the
open door of the Control Room.

Sam stood stock still. He was
afraid to move, and afraid not to
move. Almost involuntarily, he re-
treated back around the turn. He
leaned against the wall, gasping with
the effort to breathe silently.

Guards! Here, in the middle of
the night. Why.?

Had they seen him, caught just a
flicker of movement.? They would
surely have spotted him if they had
been alert, but why should they be
alert.? The Ship was run with the
precision of a clock; people were

THE WIND BLOWS FREE

never where they shouldn’t be,
Still—

He tried to hold his breath, tried
to listen.

Voices.

They had seen him!

“You’re just jumpy. I didn’t hear
anythingl’

“1 tell you, there was something
there 1’

“You just don’t lil{e your hand!’
Laughter. “Did it have two heads,
or three?’’

“OK, OK. Maybe I’m crazy. But
I’m going to have a loo\!’

A chair scraped across a metallic
floor.

Run!

Sam sprinted down the tunnel,
heedless of the noise, as fast as he
could go. The passage was hideous-
ly straight, there was no place to
hide. He damned himself for a fool,
but it was too late now. If he could
just find a pool of shadow, a curve
in the corridor, anything —

“Hey!’’

They had seen him.

Sam redoubled his efforts. He de-
termined not to panic. He mustn’t
let himself go, he had to think . . .

The guards couldn’t have recog-
nized him, not at that distance. He
could outrun them, he was certain
of that. If he could get back to that
branching passage, he could slip into
the sleeping town and nobody would
ever be the wiser.

He tossed a glance back over his
shoulder, and his heart sank at what
he saw. The guards had stopped.

and were using a wall phone to call
ahead.

Sam slowed his pace, fighting for
breath. There was just one question
he had to answer: could he reach
that cutoff tunnel before the Crew-
men from town got there from the
other end.? He wanted to think that
he could, but he had to .admit that
the odds were against it. He still
had too far to go. And even if he
did, the others were not fools. They
would know about that cutoff,
would be waiting at the other end.

No, that was out.

There was only one thing to do,
and he did it.

The next door he came to, he
stopped. He fumbled open the catch,
swung the door open, and slipped
inside. At first, he was blind; there
was no Ught at all. He switched on
his tubelight, closed the door, and
bolted it shut.

He made himself take the time to
put on his shoes. His lungs ached
in his chest, and the air in the pas-
sage was stale and dead. He held
the light in front of him, and tried
to run. He soon slowed to a fast
walk.

He listened carefully, but heard no
sounds of pursuit.

The corridor was different from
the others. It seemed older somehow,
and he had the eerie feeling that no
man had walked these floors for cen-
turies. There were oil slicks on the
walls, and the floor was gritty.

Sam kept going.

He came to another door that

sealed off the passage. There was a
sign on it, but it was streaked and
dirty; he couldn’t read it. He fum-
bled the catch open, shoved on the
door.

It didn’t open.

Sam bit his lip. He backed off,
took a deep breath, and threw his
shoulder into the door. It gave a
little. He hit it again, and yet again.
It swung open with a rasping
screech. He squeezed through and
shut it again behind him. The bolt
stuck and he couldn’t throw it.

He flashed the light around. The
corridor was smaller now; his head
almost scraped the ceiling. The air
was so flat he could hardly breathe
it. There was a layer of fine, white
dust on the floor. When he took a
step, the stuff puffed up in a cloud,
stinging his eyes and his nostrils.

Sam hesitated, doubting himself.
He could still go back. It would be
rough, but they probably wouldn’t
kill him. A little conditioning in the
surgery, that Was all, and he would
be the most placid man on the Ship.
He shuddered.

There was a chance, just a chance,
that this tunnel might eventually
take him back to the town, back to
some forgotten entrance. He still had
perhaps five hours before morning,
and he would not be missed until
then.

He smiled sourly. He had only
intended to do a little exploring this
first night; he had fully expected to
be back at work tomorrow. Now he
was trapped, cut off, and he would

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

probably never be able to go back to
the life he had known.

Well, it was a small loss.

Sam took a bar of food out of his
pocket and wolfed it down. He felt
a little better, but he was desper-
ately thirsty. If there were ever a
next time, he would bring water and
forget about the food.

Of course, there wasn’t going to
be any next time.

Not for him.

He steadied himself and flashed
the light around again. There was
nothing to see. The black cave
stretched away as far as the light
could penetrate. The fine dust on
the floor was white, like the snow
he had seen in pictures.

There was just one way to go.

Sam moved forward at a fast walk,
the dust puffing up around him until
he could hardly see. He moved on,
his mind frozen hard against the
terror that seeped in around him,
walking down a silent tunnel to no-
where.

He kept it up for two hours, and
then he couldn’t take it any longer.
The clouds of dust hung in the stale
air like smoke, and his throat was
raw and burning.

He had seen nothing.

He had heard nothing, save for
the pad-pad-pad of his own feet.

The tunnel had twisted and
curved until he didn’t have the faint-
est idea where he was. There had
been other corridors branching off
from the one he was in, but he had

THE WIND BLOWS FREE

been afraid to try them. This way,
he could at least retrace his steps if
he had to. He had a childish, irra-
tional fear of getting lost, even
though he now had no home to go
back to.

But he had to get out of the dust.

He came to a door in the wall and
forced it open. He went through
and closed it quickly behind him. He
stood very still, trying not to stir up
the dust.

He flashed the light around him.

For one awful moment, he
thought all the stories he had heard
about things that lived in the for- .
bidden caves were true. He was in a
room, not a tunnel, and the walls
were lined with grotesque figures —
big bulging caricatures of men, with
glassy faces and swollen arms and
legs.

But the things were not alive.

They had never been alive.

Gingerly, Sam stepped over and
touched one. It was made of some
kind of smooth stuff that reminded
him of pottery, and it glistened dully
in the light.

How long had it been since this
lost chamber had seen a light? A
hundred years? Two hundred?
Three ?

He tapped the thing with his fin-
gernail. It gave off only a faint click,
although he knew that it was hollow.
He looked around him, estimating
rapidly. There must have been at
least fifty of the weird figures in the
chamber with him.

He knew what they were, and it

came as something of a shock when
he realized that he had never actu-
ally seen one of them before. *

Spacesuits.

He was in a storeroom full of
spacesuits.

Strange, half-formed thoughts be-
gan to well up in his mind. He
hardly knew what to make of them,
and for a moment he feared he might
be going mad. Funny I’ve never seen
a spacesuit before. Funny none of
us were given training in their use.
Funny no one has ever had to go
Outside for repairs.

Or were they a carefully guarded
secret, one of the privileges of the
Crew?

But what was all this secrecy for,
anyhow?

The puzzle of the midnight guards
at the Control Room door came
back to plague him. Sure, it would-
n’t do to have women and kids and
questionable characters like himself
swarming over the place, getting in
the way. But guards in the middle of
the night seemed a bit excessive.

What were they hiding in the
Control Room ?

What was there they did not dare
let anyone see until they knew they
could trust him absolutely ?

In fact, now that he thought about
it, there was one question that might
be asked about a lot of things on the
Ship.

It was a deadly question, a ques-
tion that had toppled empires.

Why?

The unvoiced word vibrated

against his brain, and there was no
answer to it.

He looked more closely at the
spacesuit in front of him. The thing
had a thin film of dust on it. He
heaved on it, turned it around. There
were two oxygen tanks clamped to
its back. He found the switch that
activated the air supply and threw
it.

Nothing happened.

He picked up the heavy helmet,
pressed it to his ear. He heard noth-
ing. He sniffed at it, and the air was
as dead as ever. There was no oxy-
gen coming through.

Surely, in a ship in space, it would
only be common sense to keep the
spacesuits ready for action. He shook
his head. Of course, there must be
others somewhere, but still —

He replaced the helmet and
chewed on another food bar. He
hated to go back into the dust-laden
corridor, but he couldn’t stay here.
He only had a few hours left before
the working day began.

A plan ?

He had no plan. He thought
vaguely that there might be a life-
boat of some sort on the Ship, but
it would be a pure accident if he
found it. Even if he did locate it, it
would do him no good. He had had
no training in operating a ship in
space, and he knew enough about
spaceships to be certain that he
couldn’t just pile into one and go
blasting merrily on his way.

In any event, where could he go?

One notion did occur to him, Un-

F.\NTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

less there were no rhyme or reason
at all to the plan to the Ship, there
must have been a purpose in locat-
ing the storeroom where it was.

And there was just one such pur-
pose that he could think of.

He opened the door again, cough-
ing as the dust' hit him. He listened
carefully,, but the corridor was ut-
terly silent. It stretched on before
him, a dead and lifeless thing, heavy
with the weight of centuries.

Sam moved on, trying not to give
way to despair.

Pad-pad-pad.

The fine white dust swirled and
eddied in the old, stale air.

^ The pencil of light stabbed
through the gloom, becoming a solid
bar of silver radiance as it knifed
through the glittering clouds of dust.

His throat Was so dry he could no
longer swallow, and he thought of
the clean, fresh, air of the hydropon-
ics room with hopeless longing.

Pad-pad-pad,

His shoes kicked something on the
floor, and he looked down. There
was a heap of something there, white
as the dust that covered it.

Bones.

Bones, and a shrunken skin as
dry as old paper. A human skull
gaped at him with something that
had once been eyes. He knelt and
touched the thing. The skin crum-
bled at the slightest pressure.

Sam looked at the pitiful rem-
nants that had long ago walked and
breathed and loved. He felt no hor-
ror, only an odd surge of sym-

THE WIND BLOWS FREE

pathy and relief. He was not the
first, after all! He was not the only
man who had gotten out of line.

How many others had there been?

He waved a friendly greeting at
the pile of bones.

/ wish I could have \nown you,
he thought. We might have done
something, together. I might have
had someone to tal\ to. We could
have been friends, you and I.

He stepped over the bones, being
careful not to disturb them, and
walked on.

Within half an hour, he came to
the end of the tunnel.

A door sealed the passage before
him, but this was no ordinary door.
This was a massive metal thing set
into the very side of the Ship itself.

A faded sign read; danger, lock

FOUR. DANGER.

Sam stared at the gleaming metal.
Involuntarily, he backed away. He
had come to the end of his world.
Beyond that door, he knew, was the
chamber of an airlock. And on the
other side of the airlock—

Outside.

Deep space.

The End.

Sam sat down in the dust, his
head in his hands. He didn’t try to
kid himself. He was through. This
was all there w'as. He had no choice
now. He could only retrace his steps
along that dead tunnel, go back and
give himself up.

And then.?

He shivered, and the blood ran
cold in his veins.

No, no. I won't give up. 1 can’t.
Not yet.

He got to his feet, trembling.

He forced himself to walk up to
the airlock door. He reached out
and touched it. It felt icy, or was
that just his imagination ?

He wasn’t thinking; he was be-
yond that. He only knew that the
Ship and everything in it had be-
come horrible to him, unbearable.
Maybe there was a workable space-
suit inside the lock, maybe he could
go Outside and drift forever among
the stars. . . .

It would be a cleaner death than
the thing that waited for him at the
other end of the tunnel.

He reached out and gripped the
wheel in the middle of the lock.

He wrenched it, hard.

It stuck at first, then began to turn.

Instantly, the corridor exploded
into sound.

A siren screamed, rising and fall-
ing, screeching through the Ship.

The noise deafened him after the
hours of silence. He covered his
ears and the siren wailed in his
brain.

Oh God, they’ve got it wired.
They know where 1 am. They’ll
come after me, kill nte —

Sam didn’t want to die. Opening
the inner door of the airlock had
been a gesture, nothing more. Faced
with the reality of death, he had only
one instinctive thought:

Hide!

Get away!

He ran back into the tunnel.

He ran blindly, bruising himself
against the walls, a mindless body
fleeing through a nightmare cave of
arid white clouds and the insistent
fury of the siren’s scream.

With numbing abruptness, Sam
Kingsley heard a human voice.

Human ?

It was screeching so that he could
hardly tell, screeching a single mad
high-pitched note over and over
again. How could he hear it over the
wail of the siren ? He shook his head
wildly, like an animal.

The siren had stopped.

He stuffed his big fist into his
own mouth, biting down on the
knuckles. The screaming voice that
might have been human turned into
a strangled gurgle.

It was his own voice.

He sobbed, and the sound was
shatteringly loud in the sudden si-
lence. His ears were ringing, his body
was wet with sweat. The dust in his
lungs made him cough, but he didn’t
have enough air to cough. . . .

He stumbled over the skeleton in
the corridor, scattering the bones. He
tried to keep running, but he was
staggering now.

Hide!

Get away!

If he could just reach that store-
room, get in there with the space-
suits, there might be a chance, a
prayer —

No.

It was too late.

He heard voices ahead of him in

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

the corridor, brushing noises, the
tread of feet.

“Kingsley!” The shout was
strangely muffled. “Kingsley! We
know you’re in there! Stay where
you are. Don’t try to fight. We won’t
hurt you. Kingsley! Can you hear
me?”

Sam collapsed on the floor, his face
in the dust, gasping for breath. He
didn’t answer, he couldn’t answer.
He stayed there in a huddle, unable
to think, beyond even despair, the
blood roaring in his ears.

The lights in the ancient tunnel
came on, blinding him, searing
whitely into his brain.

The footsteps came closer, closer.

There. He saw a shoe, right in
front of his eyes.

Voices. "Is he dead?’’ "No such
luchj’ "He’s too tough to hill.’’

A foot nudged his battered shoul-
der, none too gently.

"Come on, Sam boy. Get up.”

It was like awakening after a too-
long sleep. He had to swim back to-
ward awareness, pulling his way
through dense layers of stifling fog.
Every bone in his body hurt. He
rolled over very slowly.

He struggled to his knees.

The foot hit him again. It wasn’t
a hard kick, but it didn’t have to be.
Sam went down, his mouth in the
dust.

"Come on, Sam boy. Stop playing
around.”

"That’s enough of that, Ralph. Let
him alone.”

THE WIND BLOWS FREE

Sam tried it again. He got to his
knees, waited. Nothing happened.
He pulled himself erect. His vision
cleared.

There were three of them in the
corridor with him. They were all
Crewmen, and they all had face
masks on to protect them from the
dust. He recognized Ralph Hol-
brook by his voice. The men all had
canteens clipped to their belts.

“Water,” he said. His voice was a
dry croak.

The men were ghostly in the white
light. One of them shook his head.
“No water, Kingsley. Not until we
get you back where you belong. Af-
ter that, you can have all the water
you want.”

“Water,” he said again. His throat
was on fire.

“Sorry, Sam boy.”

Holbrook moved a little. Sam
could hear the water gurgling in his
canteen.

“Let’s go, Kingsley,” said the man
who had spoken before. He sound-
ed almost bored. “It’s a long walk
back.”

Sam stared at the canteen on Hol-
brook’s belt with raw, red eyes. He
stood absolutely motionless, and then
something snapped inside him. It
was hke a dam bursting, a dam he
had held in check all his life. His
eyes brightened, and a terrible icy
strength flowed into his exhausted
body.

He stood up straight, his head al-
most touching the roof of the tun-
nel. His huge frame seemed to swell

until he filled the corridor. His hair
was white with dust, but his eyes
were black coals in the light. He
clenched his ' bleeding fists and his
lips drew back from his teeth.

Suddenly, he was very calm, very
sure.

He stood there like a rock.

He was through running.

And then, for the first time in his
life, Sam Kingsley really got mad.

He took one quick step forward
and caught Holbrook’s tunic in his
fist. Holbrook’s eyes widened and a
curious noise came out of his mouth.
Sam yanked, and the fabric ripped.

Off balance, Holbrook started to
fall on his face.

Sam brought his beefy right fist
up from his knees and sent it crunch-
ing into Holbrook’s jaw. Something
broke; the jaw went flabby. Quite
coldly, Sam drove a piston left into
Holbrook’s stomach, and then
caught him with another right to the
side of the head as the man crum-
pled at his feet.

Silently, he went after the others.

The corridor was so narrow that
the two Crewmen got in each oth-
er’s way. With icy deliberation, Sam
held them off with a jabbing left
hand, throwing his right with merci-
less precision.

The first man kicked at him fran-
tically. Sam caught the foot, twisted
it with a wrenching jolt. The man
screamed. Sam picked him up by the
feet and smacked his head against
the tunnel wall.

The last Crewman turned to run.

Sam reached out his long left arm,
caught his shoulder, spun him
around. The man slashed out with
something that glittered and Sam
felt a hot wetness in his chest. He
narrowed his black eyes, slammed
his right into the man’s face with all
his strength. He followed it up re-
lentlessly, slugging the man back
down the corridor. The man fell,
staggered to his feet again.

Sam let him have it.

It was all over.

Sam felt a small warm glow of
satisfaction deep within himself, and
that was all. He stood quietly for a
moment, gasping for breath in the
dust-choked air, and then he reached
down and unhooked the man’s can-
teen. He lifted it to his lips and
poured cold water down his throat.

That was a mistake.

When he was through being sick,
he got Holbrook’s canteen and
forced himself to sip the water slow-
ly, letting it trickle down until nau-
sea made him stop. Then he found
one of the face masks that was still
relatively intact and pulled it over
his face.

Air!

Clean, filtered air!

He breathed deeply, luxuriating
in the stuff. He filled his lungs with
it, tasting it, loving it. His chest
worked like a bellows until the oxy-
gen made him dizzy and he had to
slow down.

He examined his chest. It was slip-
pery with blood, blood furred now

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

with sticky dust, but it was not a
deep cut. In any event, he wasn’t
worried about it. There was no time
left for worry.

Sam knew that he had killed the
man he had slammed against the
corridor wall. He knew it without
looking, and he felt no remorse. It
was simply another item to be added
to the list, and it made his position
more serious than ever. It made his
position completely hopeless.

He laughed, shortly.

The hell with it, gentlemen! I’ll
cheat you yet!

There was no point in trying to
reach the storeroom. It might gain
him an hour or two, nothing more.
And they would be after him very
soon now, many of them, far more
than he could ever handle.

There was just one thing left to
do.

Sam turned, picked his way over
the prone bodies, and went back the
way he had come. It was easier with
the lights on, easier with decent air
in his lungs, easier now that he
wasn’t burning up with thirst. But
as he walked the reaction caught
up with him, the adrenalin of battle
faded, and his legs wobbled precari-
ously.

He almost made it before he fell
down, and then he just crawled the
rest of the way.

The faded sign was the same:

DANGER. LOCK FOUR. DANGER.

The massive metal door still
gleamed in the very side of the Ship.
Beyond that airlock —

THE WIND BLOWS FREE

Well, no matter. He was through,
cither way.

He pulled himself to his feet,
grasped the wheel in the middle of
the great door, twisted it.

The siren exploded into fury again,
but this time he was ready for it.
He ignored the bedlam, kept on turn-
ing the wheel. It came more easily
now, loosening up, it was spin-
ning—

There was a rasping creak he
could hear above the siren’s scream.

Sam’s hand dropped from the cold
metal wheel. In spite of himself, he
backed away, holding his breath.

The airlock door opened with a
hiss.

At that precise moment, he heard
a chorus of cries that cut through
the racket of the siren. A glance
down the tunnel showed a troop of
Crewmen advancing through the
smoke-like dust.

Sam waved his hand at them
tauntingly.

Without hesitation, he stepped
through the airlock door. He found
himself in a small metal chamber.
Remembering the films he had seen,
he jabbed a green button on a wall
panel. The great door through
which he had come hissed shut again,
just before the others reached it.

That door could not be opened
again from the Ship as long as he
was inside the airlock.

He looked around him. There was
little to see. The lock was a small
one, perhaps ten feet square. It had

been painted a dull gray, but the
paint had peeled and cracked, show-
ing the dark metal beneath.

The chamber was quite empty.

There was no providential space-
suit.

Sam stepped across to the circular
portal at the far end of the airlock.
He touched it with his finger. It
felt cold. Just to the right of the
portal there was another panel. The
panel had a red button set into it.

Sam reached out to press the but-
ton.

His finger trembled so violently
that he missed it altogether.

It was all very well to make up
your mind to do something that
went against your very soul. It was
all very well to be convinced that
you were going to do it. It was all
very well to try to do it.

But beyond this last door was Out-
side.

Outside the Ship.

Outside the world.

Outside, past the sandy beaches of
a warm and tiny island, out into the
vastnesses of a desolate sea, cold and
empty beyond belief. Out into space
itself, out into a nightmare death
that had haunted you from child-
hood. . . .

A hollow clanging filled the cham-
ber.

The Crewmen were trying to bat-
ter the inner door down.

Sam took a deep breath, and held
it. He pressed the red button. He
felt a cool current against his body
as air began to cycle.

The circular portal creaked and
hissed.

It began to open.

Sam closed his eyes, held his
breath with maniac ferocity.

He counted to ten.

He squared his shoulders and
walked forward. He walked
through the port. He was Outside —

He began to fall.

God, can I have guessed right,
why don’t I explode, why can’t I
feel anything. . . .

He hit something with a numbing
crash. The something gave under
the impact; it was flexible. It ripped
at his arms and legs as he fell —

Then it stopped.

It was over.

Sam couldn’t hold his breath any
longer. His lungs were bursting, his
eyes bulging from their sockets. He
opened his mouth, gasped, swal-
lowed.

Air!

The face-mask could only filter
air; there had to be air there in the
first place. And that meant —

Sam opened his eyes.

Green.

Yellow.

Red.

Blacl{.

Colors! A riot of colors! He had
never seen such colors; they stunned
his eyes. He looked up, past a tangle
of green. Light! Bright, golden light.

A sun.

Sam reached up, ripped off his
face-mask.

An avalanche of smells almost

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

smothered him. It was like his hy-
droponics room, but magnified a
million times. He smelled green
growing things, flowers, trees —

Life.

He had been living in a dead
world, a counterfeit world, and here
was the real thing, dazzling, incred-
ible, wonderful, overpowering. A
gentle breeze ruffled the leaves over
his head, a sweet living breeze he
could taste in his mouth.

Sam tried his body gingerly. No
bones were broken, as far as he could
tell. He reached out and pulled the
sticky green vines apart, making a
hole. He began to inch along pain-
fully, like a worm, sucking in the
earth-moist air as he went. He
forced his way through a tangled
miracle of underbrush for some
twenty long minutes, and then he
found himself in a small clearing.

There was water in the clearing,
a little spring bubbling up from an
outcropping of glistening black
rocks. Sam stared at it; it seemed
to him that he had never seen any-
thing so beautiful. Tiny brown root-
lets trailed down into the pale water.
There were clean white pebbles on
the bottom, all worn and smooth.
He could see the pebbles in exact de-
tail, almost as though the water
magnified them, but when he thrust
his arm into the spring he could not
reach bottom.

Sam cupped the cold water in his
dirty hands and drank it. He had
never tasted water so sweet, so
charged with vitality.

THE WIND BLOWS FREE

He stood Hp on shaking legs. He
looked back the way he had come.

He saw a sight he would never
forget.

There was the Ship, the mighty
Ship, rearing its bulk toward an elec-
tric blue sky. There was the Ship,
the world he had known, and it
was a dead thing, a defeated thing.

Its once-bright sides were dull
with rust and corrosion. Its once-
powerful jets were buried in dirt
and brambles. Its once-proud out-
line was blurred by the tangled
green ropes of creepers and vines.

There was the Ship, there was his
world : buried beneath the decay and
the growth of centuries.

The Ship had landed; that was
obvious enough. It had touched
down long ago, generations ago. It
had found the world it had sought,
the world that might give his peo-
ple another chance.

The great journey had ended hun-
dreds of years ago.

And the passengers ?

They had stayed in the Ship.

They had been afraid to come out.

They had built their little safe
sterile society in their metal tube of
a world, and they had been afraid to
start again. They remembered what
had happened on Earth; they were
never allowed to forget. A lifetime
of warnings buzzed through Sam’s
brain:

‘‘You must be careful, you must be
wise. . . ."

“Taf{e no chances. . .

“Better to be safe than sorry. . .

Sam had known, somehow. A part
of him had always known. This was
the secret the Crewmen hid from
their people. This was why the use-
less control room was guarded, even
in the midnight hours. This was
why the Crewmen had to be se-
lected so carefully. This was why
they had feared him, hated him,
stifled him —

Sam felt the warm sun on his
neck, tasted the living air in his
mouth, smelled the breeze that had
kissed the flowers and the trees and
the blue vault of the skies.

And he threw back his head and
laughed, laughed with the sheer
blind exultation of being alive.

He flopped down on the ground
by the bubbling spring, pillowed his
head in his arms, and was asleep in
seconds.

When Sam woke up, the world
was dark around him — dark and yet
shot with a luminous gray that told
him that dawn was near. He had no
idea how long he had slept, since
he did not know the planet’s period
of rotation, but he felt rested and
ready to go.

He was cold, ahd his body was
stiff and sore. The ground that had
seemed so warm in the sunlight was
chill and damp now, and there were
tiny beads of moisture on the grass
stems. The stars were fading as
light seeped over the horizon, but
they still dusted the heavens with
their glory.

He drank some more water, but

it failed to fill the emptiness that
gnawed inside him. He searched his
pockets, but he had no food left.
He stood there and shivered, half
smiling at his own plight.

He didn’t know how to build a
fire.

He didn’t know what berries or
nuts were safe to eat.

He had no weapons.

He listened, almost holding his
breath. He heard the world around
him, the world he could not see.
He heard sounds he had never heard
on the Ship; the very air was filled
with rustlings and sighings and a
vague thump as something heavy
moved in the brush.

Sam stood quietly, watching the
sunrise. He felt as though he were
just being born, coming forth as a
man after an eternity of not-life in-
side a great metal egg. . . .

The sun came up slowly, taking
its own sweet time, doing the job
right. It bathed the world in soft
pastels, in rose and soft yellow and
rich brown. It warmed the ground,
the leaves, the grasses. It rolled into
the sky, almost timidly, and looked
down on itself, smiling into the
chuckles of the spring.

Sam looked again at the Ship. It
was a sad thing in the sunlight, a
tragic thing. It looked like the tomb-
stone placed over the grave of a
giant. It was hard to believe that
people lived and loved and died
within those metal walls; it was as
if the ancient Egyptians of Earth
had sealed their society inside a vast

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

pyramid, trying to preserve it for
the ages. . . .

Sam felt no anger now, not even
triumph. The green world around
him was too big for that. Instead,
watching that rusting hulk being
strangled in the patient coils of the
vines, he felt the beginnings of com-
passion, of understanding.

ril be bac\, he thought. One day
I’ll be bac\.

And then the irony of it welled
up within him. O my people! The
door was always open to you, the
door into sunlight and warmth and
life. The door was always open, if
you only had the courage to wal\
through it!

He turned and set out toward a
low range of bluish hiHs, still half
hidden by mist. He was desperately
hungry, with no way of getting
food, but happiness was in him like
a song. He knew he was on the
threshold of a new life, he \new
that more miracles waited for him
beneath that alien, golden sun. He
had only to keep going, to walk
far enough and long enough —

He smelled the smoke first.

He was walking through a clump
of tall, cool trees, relishing the
spongy softness of the leaves on the
forest floor. He caught a whiff of
woodsmoke, heavy and pungent
with the tang of broiling meat. He
walked faster, almost running, trail-
ing the smoke.

He came to the edge of a sea of
grass, a rolling meadow of green.
He saw the orange fire at the very

THE WIND BLOWS FREE

edge of the timber, blazing up with
sap-rich hissings and cracklings.
He smelled the dripping meat hang-
ing over the flames. . . .

He saw the men, three of them,
standing around the fire. Big men,
men his own size, their muscles as
golden as the sun in the sky. They
saw him, smiled at him, waved to
him.

Sam waved back. He knew there

was nothing to fear here, and hur-
ried toward the fire with a steady,
eager step. He walked proudly, his
head erect, his heart full.

And Sam Kingsley heard at last
that far, free wind that stirs the
world. He felt within him the deep
beat of a living sea, and knew that
he had found peace at the end of
his journey, a peace as bright with
promise as the morning sun.

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Coles. Abridged edition. British Agent Tommy Hambledon has his vacation
interrupted by international gangsters out for blood, money and the free
world’s secrets, ’’. . . fast-paced, and funny’,’ says the San Francisco News.

Cecil Corwin was once a prolific and brilliant writer of science fiction.
You’ll find 43 entries, under his own name and his many pseudonyms,
in Donald Day’s INDEX; he has appeared in F&SF (The Mask of De-
meter, January, 1953) and he once received a Jules Verne Award. If
y Old re wondering why you have not seen Mr. Corwin’s name in print
recently, you’ll find the answer (along with at least part of The An-
swer) in one of the oddest stories ever to turn up on even this
editorial desk.

>JMS, Found in a Chinese Fortune Coo\ie

hy C. M. KORNBLUTH

They say i am mad, but i am not
mad — damn it, I’ve written and
sold two million words of fiction
and I know better than to start a
story like that, but this isn’t a story
and they do say I’m mad — cata-
tonic schizophrenia with assaultive
episodes — and I’m not, YThis is
clearly the first of the Corwin Pa-
pers. Like all the others it is writ-
ten on a Riz-lM cigarette paper
with a ball point pen. Lifie all the
others it is headed: Urgent. Finder
please send to C. M. Kornbluth,
Wantagh, N. Y. Reward! / might
comment that this is typical of Cor-
win’s generosity with his friends’
time and money, though his atti-
tude is at least this once justified
by his desperate plight. As his
longtime friend and, indeed, liter-
ary executor, I was clearly the

person to turn to. CMK] I have to
convince you, Cyril, that I am both
sane and the victim of an enor-
mous conspiracy — and that you are
too, and that everybody is. A tall
order, but I am going to try to fill
it by writing an orderly account
of the events leading up to my
present situation. [Here ends the first
paper. To fieep the record clear I
should state that it was forwarded
to me by a Mr. L. Wilmot Shaw
who found it in a fortune cookie
he ordered for dessert at the Great
China Republic Restaurant in San
Francisco. Mr. Shaw suspected it
was “a publicity gag" but sent it
to me nonetheless, and received by
return mail my thanks and my
check for one dollar. I had not
realized that Corwin and his wife
had disappeared from their home

MS. FOUND IN A CHINESE FORTUNE COOKIE

at Painted Post; I was merely aware
that it had been weeks since I'd
heard from him. We visited infre-
quently. To be blunt, he was easier
to take via mail than face to face.
For the balance of this account 1
shall attempt to avoid tedium by
omitting the provenance of each
paper, except when noteworthy,
and its length. The first is typical —
a little over a hundred words. I
have, of course, kept on file all
correspondence relating to the
papers, and am eager to display it
to the authorities. It is hoped that
publication of this account will
nudge them out of the apathy with
which they have so far greeted my
attempts to engage them. CMK\

On Sunday, May 13, 1956, at about
12:30 pju., I learned The Answer.
I was stiff and aching because all
Saturday my wife and I had been
putting in young fruit trees. I like
to dig, but I was badly out of con-
dition from an unusually long and
idle winter. Creatively, I felt fine.
I’d been stale for months, but when
spring came the sap began to run
in me too. I was bursting with story
ideas; scenes and stretches of dialog
were jostling one another in my
mind; all I had to do was let them
flow onto paper.

When The Answer popped into
my head I thought at first it was
an idea for a story — a very good
story. I was going to go downstairs
and bounce it off my wife a few
times to test it, but I heard the
sewing machine buzzing and re-

membered she had said she was
way behind on her mending. In-
stead, I put my feet up, stared
blankly through the window at the
pasture-and-wooded-hills View we’d
bought the old place for, and fondled
the idea.

What about, I thought, using the
idea to develop a messy little local
situation, the case of Mrs. Clon-
ford.'* Mrs. C. is a neighbor, animal-
happy, land-poor and uninten-
tionally a fearsome oppressor of her
husband and children. Mr. C. is a
retired brakeman with a pension
and his wife insists on him making
like a farmer in all weathers and
every year he gets pneumonia and
is pulled through with antibiotics.
All he wants is to sell the damned
farm and retire with his wife to a
little apartment in town. All she
wants is to mess around with her
cows and horses and sub-marginal
acreage.

I got to thinking that if you
noised the story around with a com-
ment based on The Answer, the
situation would automatically un-
tangle. They’d get their apartment,
sell the farm and everybody would
be happy, including Mrs. C. It would
be interesting to write, I thought
idly, and then I thought not so idly
that it would be interesting to try —
and then I sat up sharply with a
dry mouth and a systemful of ad-
renalin. It would work' The An-
swer would work.

I ran rapidly down a list of other
problems, ranging from the town

drunk to the guided-missile race. The
Answer worked. Every time.

I was quite sure I had turned
paranoid, because I’ve seen so much
of that kind of thing in science
fiction. Anybody can name a dozen
writers, editors and fans who have
suddenly seen the light and deter-
mined to lead the human race on-
ward and upward out of the old
slough. Of course The Answer
looked logical and unassailable, but
so no doubt did poor Charlie Mc-
Gandress’ project to unite man-
kind through science fiction fan-
dom, at least to him. So, no doubt,
did [/ have here omitted several
briefly sketched case histories of sci-
ence fiction personalities as yet un-
committed. The reason will be ob-
vious to anyone familiar with the
law of libel. Suffice it to say that
Corwin argues that science fiction
attracts an unstable type of mind
and sometimes insidiously under-
mines its foundations on reality.
CMK]

But I couldn’t just throw it away
without a test. I considered the
wording carefully, picked up the
extension phone on my desk and
dialed Jim Howlett, the appliance
dealer in town. He answered. “Cor-
win, Jim,” I told him. “I have an
idea — oops! The samovar’s boiling
over. Call me back in a minute,
will you?” I hung up.

He called me back in a minute;
I let our combination — two shorts
and a long — ring three times before
I picked up the phone. “What was

FANTASY AND SCIENCii FICTION

that about a samovar?” he asked,
baffled.

“Just kidding,” I said. “Listen
Jim, why don’t you try a short story
for a change of pace? Knock off
the novel for a while — ” He’s hope-
fully writing a big historical about
the SulHvan Campaign of 1779,
which is our local chunk of the
Revolutionary War; I’m helping
him a little with advice. Anybody
who wants as badly as he docs to
get out of the appliance business is
entitled to some help.

“Gee, I don’t know,” he said. As
he spoke the volume of his voice
dropped slightly but definitely, three
times. That meant we had an av-
erage quota of party line snoopers
listening in. “What would I write
about?”

“Well, we have this situation with
a neighbor, Mrs. Clonford,” I be-
gan. I went through the problem
and made my comment based on
The Answer. I heard one of the
snoopers gasp. Jim said when I was
finished: “I don’t really think it’s
for me, Cecil. Of course it was nice
of you to call, but — ”

Eventually a customer came into
the store and he had to break off.

I went through an anxious crabby
twenty-four hours.

On Monday afternoon the paper
woman drove past our place and
shot the rolled-up copy of the Pott
Hill Evening Times into the orange-
painted tube beside our mailbox. I
raced for it, yanked it open to the
seventh page and read :

MS. FOUND IN A CHINESE FORTUNE COOKIE

“FARM SALE

Owing to 111 Health and Age
Mr. & Mrs. Ronald Clonford
Will sell their Entire Farm, All
Machinery and Furnishings and
All Live Stock at Auction Sat-
urday May 19 12:30 P.M. Rain
or Shine, Terms Cash Day of
Sale, George Pfennig,

Auctioneer.”

[This is one of the few things in
the Corwin Papers which can be
independently verified. I loo\ed up
the paper and found that the ad
was run about as quoted. Further,
I interviewed Mrs. Clonford in her
town apartment. She told me she
"just got tired of farmin’, I guess.
Kind of hated to give up my ponies,
but people was beginning to say it
was too hard of a life for Ronnie
and I guess they was right'.’ CMK\
Coincidence.'* Perhaps. I went up-
stairs with the paper and put my
feet up again. I could try a hundred
more piddling tests if I wished, but
why waste time? If there was any-
thing to it, I could type out The
Answer in about two hundred
words, drive to town, tack it on the
bulletin board outside the firehouse
and — snowball. Avalanche!

I didn’t do it, of course — for the
same reason I haven’t put down the
two hundred words of The Answer
yet on a couple of these cigarette
papers. It’s rather dreadful — isn’t it
— that I haven’t done so, that a
simple feasible plan to ensure peace,
progress and equality of opportunity

among all mankind, may be lost to
the world if, say, a big meteorite
hits the asylum in the next couple
of minutes. But — I’m a writer.
There’s a touch of intellectual sad-
ism in us. We like to dominate the
reader as a matador dominates the
bull; we like to tease and mystify
and at last show what great souls
we are by generously flipping up
the shade and letting the sunshine
in. Don’t worry. Read on. You will
come to The Answer in the proper
artistic place for it. [At this point I
wish fervently to dissociate myself
from the attitudes Corwin attributes
to our profession. He had — has, I
hope — his eccentricities, and I con~
sider it inexcusable of him to tar us
all with his personal brush. I could
point out, for example, that he once
laboriously cultivated a 16th Cen-
tury handwriting which was utterly
illegible to the modern reader. The
only reason apparent for this, as for
so many of his traits, seemed to be
a wish to annoy as many people as
possible. CMK\

Yes; I am a writer. A matador
does not show up in the bull ring
with a tommy gun and a writer
doesn’t do things the simple, direct
way. He makes the people writhe
a little first. So I called Fred Green-
wald. Fred had been after me for
a while to speak at one of the Thurs-
day Rotary meetings and I’d been
reluctant to set a date. I have a little
speech for such occasions, “The
Business of Being a Writer” — all
about the archaic royalty system of

payment, the difficulty of proving
business expenses, the Margaret
Mitchell tax law and hoW it badly
needs improvement, what copyright
is and isn’t, how about all these
generals and politicians with their
capital-gains memoirs. I pass a few
galley sheets down the table and
generally get a good laugh by hold-
ing up a Doubleday book contract,
silently turning it over so they can
see how the fine print goes on and
on, and then flipping it open so
they see there’s twice as much fine
print as they thought there was. I
had done my stuff for Oswego Ro-
tary, Horseheads Rotary and Can-
non Hole Rotary; now Fred wanted
me to do it for Painted Post Rotary.

So I phoned him and said I’d be
willing to speak this coming Thurs-
day. Good, he said. On a discovery
I’d made about the philosophy and
technique of administration and in-
terpersonal relationships, I said. He
sort of choked up and said well,
we’re broadminded here.

I’ve got to start cutting this. I
have several packs of cigarette
papers left but not enough to cover
the high spots if I’m to do them
justice. Let’s just say the announce-
ment of my speech was run in the
Tuesday paper [It was. CMK\ and
skip to Wednesday, my place, about
7:30 p.M. Dinner was just over and
my wife and I were going to walk
out and see how [At this point I
wish to insert a special note con-
cerning some difficulty I had in
obtaining the next jour papers. They

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

got somehow into the hands of a
certain literary agent who is famous
for a sort of “finders-\eepers'’ at-
titude more appropriate to the
eighth grade than to the law of
literary property. In disregard of the
fact that Corwin retained physical
ownership of the papers and liter-
ary rights thereto, and that 1 as
the addressee possessed all other
rights, he was blandly endeavoring
to sell them to various magazines
as "curious fragments from Corwin’s
desl('. Lil{e most people, 1 abhor
lawsuits; that’s the fact this agent
lives on. I met his outrageous price
of five cents a word "plus post-
age( ! ).’’ I should add that I have
not heard of any attempt by this
gentleman to locate Corwin or his
heirs in order to turn over the pro-
ceeds of the sale, less commission.
CMK] the new fruit trees were
doing when a car came bumping
down our road and stopped at our
garden fence gate.

“See what they want and shove
them on their way,” said my wife.
“We haven’t got much daylight left.”
She peered through tbe kitchen
window at the car, blinked, rubbed
her eyes and peered again. She said
uncertainly: “It looks like — no!
Can’t be.” I went out to the car.

“Anything I can do for you.'”’ I
asked the two men in the front
seat. Then I recognized them. One
of them was about my age, a wiry
lad in a T-shirt. The other man
was plump and graying and min-
isterial, but jolly. They were un-

MS. FOUND IN A CHINESE FORTUNE COOKIE

mistakable; they had looked out at
me — one scowling, the other smil-
ing— from a hundred book ads. It
was almost incredible that they
knew each other, but there they were
sharing a car.

I greeted them by name and said:
“This is odd. I happen to be a
writer myself. I’ve never shared the
best-seller list with you two, but — ”

The plump ministerial man tut-
tutted. “You are thinking nega-
tively,” he chided me. “Think of
what you have accomplished. You
own this lovely home, the valuation
of which has just been raised two
thousand dollars due entirely to the
hard work and frugality of you and
your lovely wife; you give innocent
pleasure to thousands with your
clever novels; you help to keep the
good local merchants going with
your patronage. Not least, you have
fought for your country in the wars
and you support it with your taxes.”

The man in the T-shirt said
raspily: “Even if you din’t have the
dough to settle in full on April 15
and will have to pay six per cent
per month interest on the unpaid
balance when and if you ever do
pay it, you poor shnook.”

The plump man said, distressed:
“Please, Michael — you are not think-
ing positively. This is neither the
time nor the place — ”

“What’s going on?” I demanded.
Because I hadn’t even told my wije
I’d been a little short on the ’55
federal tax,

“Let’s go inna house,” said the

T-shirted man. He got out of the
car, brushed my gate open and
walked coolly down the path to the
kitchen door. The plump man fol-
lowed, sniffing our rose-scented gar-
den air appreciatively, and I came
last of all, on wobbly legs.

When we filed in my wife said:
“My God. It is them.”

The man in the T-shirt said:
“Hiya, babe,” and stared at her
breasts. The plump man said: “May
I compliment you, my dear, for a
splendid rose garden. Quite unusual
for this altitude.”

“Thanks,” she said faintly, begin-
ning to rally, “But it’s quite easy
when your neighbors keep horses.”

“Haw!” snorted the man in the
T-shirt. “That’s the stuff, babe. You
grow roses like I write books. Give
’em plenty of — ”

“Michael!” said the plump man.

“Loo^, you,” my wife said to me.
“Would you mind telling me what
this is all about? I never knew you
knew Dr. — ”

“I don’t,” I said helplessly. “They
seem to want to talk to me.”

“Let us adjourn to your sanctum
sanctorum," said the plump man
archly, and we went upstairs. The
T-shirted man sat on the couch, the
plump fellow sat in the club chair
and I collapsed on the swivel chair
in front of the typewriter. “Drink,
anybody?” I asked, wanting one my-
self. “Sherry, brandy, rye, straight
angostura?”

“Never touch the stinking stuff,”
grunted the man in the T-shirt.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“I would enjoy a nip of brandy,”
said the big man. We each had one
straight, no chasers, and he got
down to business with: “I suppose
you have discovered The Diagonal
Relationship ? ”

I thought about The Answer, and
decided that The Diagonal Relation-
ship would be a very good name for
it too. “Yes,” I said. “I guess I have.
Have you?”

“I have. So has Michael here. So
have one thousand, seven hundred
and twenty-four writers. If you’d
like to know who they are, pick
the one thousand, seven hundred
and twenty-four top-income men of
the ten thousand free-lance writers
in this country and you have your
men. The Diagonal Relationship is
discovered on an average of three
times a year by rising writers.”

“Writers,” I said. “Good God, why
writers? Why not economists, psy-
chologists, mathematicians — real
thinkers?”

He said: “A writer’s mind is an
awesome thing, Corwin. What went
into your discovery of The Diagonal
Relationship?”

I thought a bit. “I’m doing a Civil
War thing about Burnside’s Bomb,”
I said, “and I realized that Grant
could have sent in fresh troops but
didn’t because Halleck used to drive
him crazy by telegraphic master-
minding of his campaigns. That’s
a special case of The Answer — as I
call it. Then I got some data on
medieval attitudes toward personal
astrology out of a book on ancient

China I’m reading. Another special
case. And there’s a joke the monks
used to write at the end of a long
manuscript-copying job. Liddell
Hart’s theory of strategy is about
half of the general military case of
The Answer. The merchandizing
special case shows clearly in a cata-
log I have from a Chicago store
that specializes in selling strange
clothes to bop-crazed Negroes. They
all add up to the general expression,
and that’s that.”

He was nodding. “Many, many
combinations add up to The Di-
agonal Relationship,” he said. “But
only a writer cuts across sufficient
fields, exposes himself to sufficient
apparently unrelated facts. Only a
writer has wide-open associational
channels capable of bridging the gap
between astrology and, ah, ‘bop.’
We write in our different idioms” —
he smiled at the T-shirted man —
“but we are writers all. Wide-rang-
ing, omnivorous for data, equipped
with superior powers of association
which we constantly exercise.”

“Well,” I asked logically enough,
“why on earth haven’t you pub-
lished The Diagonal Relationship?
Are you here to keep me from
publishing it?”

“We’re a power group,” said the
plump man apologetically. “We have
a vested interest in things as they
are. Think about what The Diag-
onal Relationship would do to
writers, Corwin.”

“Sure,” I said, and thought about
it. “Judas Priest!” I said after a

MS. FOUND IN A CHINESE FORTUNE COOKIE

couple of minutes. He was nodding
again. He said: “Yes. The Diagonal
Relationship, if generally promul-
gated, would work out to approxi-
mate equality of income for all, with
incentive pay only for really hard
and dangerous work. Writing would
be regarded as pretty much its own
reward.”

“That’s the way it looks,” I said.
“One-year copyright, after all . . .”

[Here occurs the first hiatus in
the Corwin Papers. I suspect that
three or jour are missing. The pre-
ceding and following papers, in-
cidentally, come from a batch of six
gross of fortune cookies which I
purchased from the Hip Sing Res-
taurant Provision Company of New
York City during the course of my
investigations. The reader no doubt
will wonder why I was unable to
determine the source of the cookies
themselves and was forced to buy
them from middlemen. Apparently
the reason is the fantastic one that
by chance I was wearing a white
shirt, dark tie and double-breasted
blue serge suit when I attempted to
question the proprietor of the Hip
Sing Company. 1 learned too late
that this is just about the unofficial
uniform of U. S. Treasury and
justice Department agents and that
1 was immediately taken to be such
an agent. “You T-man," said Mr.
Hip tolerantly, “you get cou’t oh-
dah, I show you books. Keep ve’y
nice books, all in Chinese cha’ctahs."
After that gambit he would answer
me only in Chinese. How he did it

I have no idea, but apparently within
days every Chinese produce dealer
in the United States and Canada
had been notified that there was^
a new T-man named Kornbluth on
the prowl. As a last resort I called
on the New York office of the
Treasury Department Field Investi-
gations Unit in an attempt to obtain
what might be called un-identifica-
tion papers. There I was assured by
Mr. Gershon O’Brien, their Chi-
nese specialist, that my errand was
hopeless since the motto of Mr. Hip
and his colleagues invariably was
“Safety First.’’ To make matters
worse, as I left his office I was
greeted with a polite smile from a
Chinese lad whom I recognized as
Mr. Hip’s bookkeeper. CMK\

“So you see,” he went on as if he
had just stated a major and a minor
premise, “we watch the writers, the
real ones, through private detective
agencies which alert us when the
first teaser appears in a newspaper
or on a broadcast or in local gossip.
There’s always the teaser, Corwin,
the rattle before the strike. We
writers are like that. We’ve been
watching you for three years now,
and to be perfectly frank I’ve lost
a few dollars wagered on you. In
my opinion you’re a year late.”

“What’s the proposition.?” I asked
numbly.

He shrugged. “You get to be a
best-seller. We review your books,
you review ours. We tell your
publisher : ‘Corwin’s hot — promote
him. Advertise him.’ And he does,

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

because we’re good properties and
he doesn’t want to annoy us. You
want Hollywood? It can be ar-
ranged. Lots of us out there. In
short, you become rich Hke us and
all you have to do is keep quiet
about The Diagonal Relationship.
You haven’t told your wife, by the
way?”

“I wanted to surprise her,” I said.

He smiled. “They always do.
Writers! Well, young man, what do
you say?”

It had grown dark. From the
couch came a raspy voice: “You
heard what the doc said about the
ones that throw in with us. I’m
here to tell you that we got pro-
visions for the ones that don’t.”

I laughed at him.

“One of those guys,” be said
flatly.

“Surely a borderline case, Mi-
chael?” said the plump man. “So
many of them are.”

If I’d been thinking straight I
would have realized that “border-
line case” did not mean “undecided”
to them; it meant “danger — imme-
diate action!”

They took it. The plump man,
who was also a fairly big man, flung
his arms around me and the wiry
one approached in the gloom. I
yelled something when I felt a hy-
podermic stab my arm. Then I went
numb and stupid.

My wife, came running up the
stairs. “What’s going on?” she de-
manded. I saw her heading for the
curtain behind which we keep an

aged hair-trigger Marlin 38 rifle.
There was nothing wrong with her
guts, but they attacked her where
courage doesn’t count. I croaked her
name a couple of times and heard
the plump man say gently, with
great concern: “I’m afraid your hus-
band needs . . . help.” She turned
from the curtain, her eyes wide. He
had struck subtly and knowingly;
there is probably not one writer’s
wife who does not suspect her hus-
band is a potential psychotic.

“Dear — ” she said to me as I
stood there paralyzed.

He went on: “Michael and I
dropped in because we both admire
your husband’s work; we were sur-
prised and distressed to find his
conversation so . . . disconnected.
My dear, as you must know I have
some experience through my pas-
torate with psychotherapy. Have you
ever — forgive my bluntness — had
doubts about his sanity?”

“Dear, what’s the matter?” she
asked me anxiously. I just stood
there, staring. God knows what they
injected me with, but its effect was
to cloud my mind, render all ac-
tivity impossible, send my thoughts
spinning after their tails. I was in-
sane. [This incident, seemingly the
least plausible part of Corwins
story, actually stands up better than
most of the narrative to one familiar
with recent advances in biochem-
istry. Corwin could have been in-
fected with lysergic acid, or with
protein extracts from the blood of
psychotics. It is a matter, of cold

MS. FOUND IN A CHINESE FORTUNE COOKIE

laboratory fact that such injections
produce temporary psychosis in the
patient. Indeed, it is on such ex-
perimental psychoses that the new
tranquilizer drugs are developed
and tested. CMK]

To herself she said aloud, dully:
“Well, it’s finally come. Christmas
when I burned the turkey and he
wouldn’t speak to me for a week.
The way he drummed his fingers
when I talked. All his little crackpot
ways— how he has to stay at the
Walddrf but I have to cut his hair
and save a dollar. I hoped it was
just the rotten weather and cabin
fever. I hoped when spring came — ”
She began to sob. The plump man
comforted her like a father. I just
stood there staring and waiting.
And eventually Mickey glided up
in the dark and gave her a needle-
ful too and

[Here occurs an aggravating and
important hiatus. One can only
guess that Corwin and his wife were
loaded into the car, driven — Some-
where, separated, and separately,
under false names, committed to
different mental institutions. I have
recently learned to my dismay that
there are states which require only
the barest sort of licensing to op-
erate such institutions. One State
Inspector of Hospitals even wrote
to me in these words: . , no

doubt there are some places in our
State which are not even licensed,
but we have never made any effort
to close them and I cannot recall
any statute making such operation

illegal. We are not a wealthy state
like you up North and some care
for these unfortunates is better than
none, is our viewpoint here. . , ."
CMK]

three months. Their injections
last a week. There’s always some-
body to give me another. You
know what mental hospital attend-
ants are like; an easy bribe. But
they’d be better advised to bribe a
higher type, like a male nurse, be-
cause my attendant with the special
needle for me is off on a drunk.
My insanity wore off this morning
and I’ve been writing in my room
ever since. A quick trip up and
down the corridor collected the
cigarette papers and a tiny ball point
pen from some breakfast-food pre-
mium gadget. I think my best bet
is to slip these papers out in the
batch of Chinese fortune cookies
they’re doing in the bakery. Occupa-
tional therapy, this is called. My
own o.t. is shoveling coal when I’m
under the needle. Well, enough of
this. I shall write down The An-
swer, slip down to the bakery, de.al
out the cigarette papers into the
waiting rounds of cookie dougli,
crimp them over and return to my
room. Doubtless my attendant will
be back by then and I’ll get an-
other shot from him. I shall not
struggle; I can only wait.

The Answer: human beings

RAISED TO SPEAK AN INDO-IRANIAN
LANGUAGE SUCH AS ENGLISH HAVE THE
FOLLOWING IN

[That is the end of the last of the

FANTASV AND SCIENCE FICTION

Corwin Papers I have been able to
locate. It should be superfluous to
urge all readers to examine care-
fully any fortune coo\ie slips they
may encounter. The next one you
brea\ open may contain what my
poor friend believed, or believes, to

be a great message to man\ind. He
may be right. His tale is a wild one
but it is consistent. And it embodies
the only reasonable explanation I
have ever seen for the presence of
certain boo\s on the best-seller list.
CMK]

The cartoon above, by Ronald Searle, appeared in his collection “The Femtde Ap-
proach," © 1954 by Ronald Searle. Mr. Searle appears regularly in "Punch.”

Jusf a year ago, in his first story for F&SP ( Emily and the Bards Sub-
lime), Robert F. Young introduced the problem of poetical androids,
whose voice-tapes bear a lyric heritage to which a world no longer
listens. It is, in Mr. Young’s tender treatment, an appealing subject
well worth revisiting.

Your Ghost Will Walk . . .

by ROBERT F. YOUNG

Betty lived for the moments she
spent with Bob, and he, in turn,
lived for the moments he spent with
her. Naturally those moments were
limited by their duties in the Wade
household, but quite often those
same duties brought them together,
as, for instance, when Bob assisted in
the preparation of the nightly out-
door dinner. Their eyes would meet,
then, over the sizzling tenderloins or
pork chops or frankfurters, and Bob
would say, "You’ll love me yet! —
and I can tarry your love’s pro-
tracted growing — " and Betty would
answer with one of her own lines:
"say over again, and yet once over
again, that thou dost love me . .

Sometimes they would become so
engrossed in each other that the ten-
derloins or the chops or the frank-
furters would be burned to a crisp —
even on the microwave grill, which
was supposed to be above such culi-
nary atrocities. On such occasions

Mr. Wade would become furious
and threaten to have their tapes cut
out. Being androids, they could not,
of course, distinguish between basic
motives and apparent motives, so
they did not know that Mr. Wade’s
threat stemmed from deeper frustra-
tions than burnt tenderloins, chops,
and frankfurters. But, androids or
not, they were aware that without
their tapes they would cease to be
themselves for each other, and, sev-
eral times, after Mr. Wade threat-
ened them, they nearly ran away,
and — once upon a time — they
did ...

Outdoor living was a cult in the
Wade clan. None of them, from tall,
exquisitely turned-out Mrs. Wade to
little, dominating Dickie Wade,
would have dreamed of eating din-
ner indoors during the summer
months, unless it was raining cats
and dogs and pitchforks. Grilled

tenderloins were as much a part o£
their lives as the portable TV sets
scattered on the disciplined sward,
the two custom-built 2025 Cadillacs
(Mr. Wade’s gold one and Mrs.
Wade’s silver one), standing like ju-
venile spaceships in the four-lane
driveway, the huge, two-toned dou-
ble garage, the king-size patio front-
ing the one-acre ranch-style house,
the outdoor swimming pool, and the
pleasant vista of forested hills and
dales tumbling away around them.

Outdoor living, Mr. Wade was
fond of remarking, built sturdy
bodies and keen minds. He usually
accompanied the remark by flexing
his biceps and tensing his pectorals
(he was mesomorphic and proud of
the fact), and appended to it by pull-
ing out his personal talking cigarette
case (he manufactured them), de-
pressing the little button that simul-
taneously ejected a cigarette and ac-
tivated the microscopic record con-
taining his latest rhyme (he wrote
his own), and listening appreciative-
ly while he lit up :

Light me up and smo\e me.

Blow a ring or two,

Vm a pleasure-packed diversion
Created just for you I

Ordinarily his verse had a sooth-
ing effect oii him. Tonight, how-
ever, the lines irritated him, left him
vaguely dissatisfied. He recognized
the symptoms : the cigarette case
market was overdue for a new mas-
terpiece, and it was up to him to
compose it.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

The day at the factory had been a
tiring one, and he sat down in his
Businessman’s Lounger (which had
been moved out on the patio for the
summer months) and let the auto-
matic massage units go to work on
him. He called to Betty to bring him
an ice-cold beer. She was leaning
across the microwave grill, talking
to Bob, and he had to call twice be-
fore she responded. Mr. Wade’s
mood, which was already dark, grew
darker yet. Even the ice-cold beer,
when Betty finally brought it, failed
to have its usual euphoric effect.

He surveyed his domain, endeav-
oring to revive his spirits by review-
ing his possessions. There were his
three small sons, squatting, hunched,
and prone before their portable TV
sets; there was his gold and gleam-
ing Caddy waiting to take him
wherever he wanted to go; there was
his 39-21-39 wife reclining languor-
ously in a nearby lawn chair, absorb-
ing the last rays of the sun; there
were his two rebuilt menials prepar-
ing the evening meal over the micro-
wave grill, reciting their anachro-
nistic poetry to each other —

Mr. Wade’s face darkened to a hue
that matched his mood. If they
burned the tenderloins again to-
night . . .

Abruptly he got up and sauntered
over to the grilL He caught a frag-
ment of verse as he came up — "/
shall never, in the years remaining,
paint you pictures, no, nor carve you
statues — ” Then Bob, who had been
speaking, lapsed into silence. It was

VOUR GHOST WILL WALK . .

always so. There was something
about Mr, Wade’s presence that
dampened their dialogue. But that
was all right, he hastily reassured
himself: he couldn’t endure their po-
etry anyway. Nevertheless, he was
piqued, and he did something he
had never condescended to do be-
fore: he came out with some of his
own stuff — a poetic gem that dated
back to his Early Years when he was
still searching for his Muse — and
threw it in their faces, so to speak:

My heart’s on the highways,

My hand’s at the wheel
Of my brilliant (jtnd beautiful
Automobile.

They looked at him blankly. Mr.
Wade knew, of course, that the
blankness was no reflection on his
art, that it was merely the result of
his reference to an object outside the
realm of their responses. Mrs. Wal-
hurst, their original owner, had con-
sidered it inappropriate to include
automobiles in their memory banks,
and when Mr. Wade had had them
converted, he hadn’t bothered to
have the deficiency corrected, not
only because he hadn’t thought it
necessary that a maid and a butler
should be conversant with such phe-
nomena, but because of the addi-
tional expense it would entail.

Just the same, his pique intensi-
fied, turned into anger. “So maybe it
isn’t immortal,” he said aggressively.
“But it’s in tune with the times and
it pays a tribute to a vital economic
factor!”

“Yes, Mr. Wade,” Betty said.

“Certainly, Mr. Wade,” said Bob.

“The trouble with you two,” Mr.
Wade went on, “is your lack of re-
spect for an economic system that
guarantees the prosperity and the lei-
sure necessary for the creation of art.
It’s an artist’s duty to fulfill his obli-
gations to the system that makes his
art possible, and the best way he can
do so is by helping to make that
system permanent. Maybe no one
will make an animated dummy out
of me when I’m gone, but my talk-
ing cigarette case line is one of the
foundations on which Tomorrow
will be built, an economic, practical
foundation — not a bunch of silly
words that no one wants to hear any
more!”

“Silly words ... Betty said
tentatively.

“Yes, silly words! The silly words
you two whisper to each other every
night when you’re supposed to be
cooking dinner — ”

Abruptly Mr. Wade paused and
sniffed the air. Something was burn-
ing. He didn’t have to look far to
find out what it was. His anger
leaped the fence .of his common
sense, and he threw up his arms. “I
will,” he shouted. “So help me I
will! I’ll have your tapes cut out!”
And he turned and strode furiously
away.

But he doubted if he ever would.
If he did, he’d have to buy new tapes
to replace the old ones, and tapes ran
into money. Betty and Bob had cost

enough already without deliberately
letting himself in for more expense!

Still, he reconsidered, resuming his
seat on the patio, they hadn’t cost
anywhere near as much as a pair of
made-to-order menials would have.
So maybe they were a couple of ante-
diluvian poets: they could — and did
— do the work they’d been converted
to do. And so maybe they did burn a
tenderloin or two now and then and
whisper nonsensical verse to each
other whenever they got the chance:
he was still getting away cheap.

In a way, he’d started a trend.
Everybody was buying up eccentric
androids now and having them con-
verted for practical tasks. But he’d
been the first to see the possibilities.
None of the other businessmen
who’d attended the auction that en-
sued Mrs. Walhurst’s death had rec-
ognized the potentialities of a pair of
androids like Betty and Bob. They’d
all stood there on the unkempt lawn
in front of Mrs. Walhurst’s crum-
bling Victorian mansion, and when
Betty and Bob had been led up on
the auctioneer’s block, all any of
them had done was laugh. Not that
there hadn’t been sufficient justifica-
tion for laughter. Imagine anyone,
even a half-cracked old recluse like
Mrs. Walhurst, having two poets
built to order! It was a miracle that
Androids, Inc. had even taken on
the job, and Lord only knew how
much they’d charged her.

Mr. Wade had laughed too, but his
reaction hadn’t stopped there. His
mind had gone into action and he’d

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

taken a good look at the two poets.
They’d been a couple of sad-looking
specimens all right, with their long
hair and period clothing. But just
suppose, he had thought: Suppose
you were to call them by their in-
formal, instead of their formal,
names, and suppose you were to get
a good barber and a good hairdresser
to go to work on their hair, and a
good tailor and a good dressmaker
to fit them out in modern clothing —
or maybe even uniforms. And then
suppose you were to get a good an-
droid mechanic to convert them into,
say, a — a — why yes, a maid and a
butler! — the very maid and butler
Mrs. Wade had wanted for so long.
Why, with the money he’d save, he
could easily buy the new auto-an-
droid he'd wanted for so long, to
service his and Mrs, Wade’s Caddies!

Nobody had bid against him and
he’d got them for a song. The cost
of converting them had been a little
more than he’d anticipated, but
when you compared the over-all cost
with what a brand new pair of meni-
als would have set him back, the dif-
ference was enormous.

It was also gratifying. Mr. Wade
began to feel better. He felt even bet-
ter after consuming three medium-
rare tender Joins (Betty and Bob had
made haste to atone for the fiery fate
of the first batch), a bowl of tossed
salad, a basket of French fries, and
another ice-cold beer, and he was his
Normal Self again when he got up
from the rustic backyard table for his
nightly Walk Around.

VOUR GHOST WILL WALK . . .

It was fun walking over your own
land, especially when you owned so
much of it. The swimming pool was
like a big silvery cigarette case in the
light of the rising moon, and the
portable TV sets bloomed on the
lawn like gaudy chrysanthemums.
The staccato sound of the cowboys
shooting the Indians blended nicely
with the distant hum of the traffic on
highway 999.

Mr. Wade’s footsteps gravitated, as
they so often did of late, to the
double-garage. Charley had the gold
Caddy up on the hydraulic lift and
was underneath it, giying it a grease
job. Fascinated, Mr. Wade sat down
to watch.

Watching Charley was a pastime
he never tired of. Charley had cost
ten times as much as Betty and Bob,
but he was worth every cent of it,
from the visor of his blue service
station attendant’s cap to the pol-
ished tips of his oil-resistant shoes.
And he just loved cars. You could
see his love in the way he went about
his work; you could see it in his
I shining eyes, in his gentle, caressing
hands. It was an inbuilt love, but it
I was a true love just the same. When
I Mr. Wade had set down his specifi-
j cations, the man from Androids,
j Inc., who had come around to take
I the order, had objected, at first, to all
the car-love Mr. Wade wanted put
in. “We’re a bit diffident about in-
stalling too much affection in them,”
the man from Androids had said.
“It’s detrimental to their stability.”

“But don’t you see?” Mr. Wade

had said. “If he loves cars, and par-
ticularly Caddies, he’s bound to do
a better job servicing them. And not
only that. I’ll keep his case in the
garage and leave it open all the time
and he’ll make a fine guard. Just let
anybody try to steal my Caddy, eh?”

“That’s precisely the point, Mr.
Wade. You see, we wouldn’t want
any of our products manhandling,
or perhaps I should say — ha ha —
‘android-handling’ a human, even if
the human in question is a thief. It
would be bad publicity for us.”

“I should think it would be good
publicity,” Mr. Wade had said. “Any-
way,” he went on, in a sharper tone
of voice, “if you expect to sell me an
auto-android, he’s going to love my
Caddy and that’s all there is to it!”

“Ob, of course, sir. We’ll build you
anything you like. It’s just that I felt
duty-bound to point out that affec-
tion is an unpredictable quality, even
in humans, and — ”

“Are you going to make him the
way I want him or aren’t you!”

“Yes, sir. Androids, Inc. has but
one aim in life: Happy Customers.
Now what else in the way of person-
ality did you have in mind, sir ? ”

“Well — ” Mr. Wade had cleared his
throat. “First of all . . .”

“Good evening, Mr. Wade,” Char-
ley said, wiping off a fitting.

“Good evening yourself,” Mr.
Wade said. “How’s tricks?”

“Not bad, sir. Not bad.” Charley
applied the grease gun to the fitting,
and pumped in precisely die right
amount of grease.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Car in good shape, Charley?”

“Well . . The synthetic tissue of
Charley’s face was one of Android,
Inc.’s latest triumphs. He could —
and actually did — frown. “I hate to
be critical, sir, but I don’t think you
should take her on newly tarred
roads. Her undercarriage is a sight!”

“Couldn’t help it, Charley. You
can get the stuff off, can’t you?”

“In time, sir. In time. It’s not that
I mind the work, of course. It’s the
sacrilegious nature of the act itself
that irks me. Couldn’t you have de-
toured ? ”

It was on the tip of Mr. Wade’s
tongue to say that he could have, but
that he hadn’t, and it was none of
Charley’s G.D. business anyway. But
he caught himself just in time. After
all, wasn’t this the very reaction he
had wanted in an auto-android?
And didn’t it go to show that An-
droids, Inc. had built Charley exactly
according to specifications ?

He said instead: “I’m sorry, Char-
ley. I’ll be more considerate next
time.” Then he got down to the real
reason for his visit. “You like poetry,
don’t you, Charley?”

“I’ll say, sir. Especially yours!”

A warm glow began in Mr. Wade’s
toes, spread deliciously upward to
the roots of his hair. “Been mulling
over a new rhyme. Kind of like to
get your reaction.”

“Shoot, sir.”

“Goes like this:

Smo^e me early, smo^e me late,

Smo]{e me if you’re underweight.

I’m delightful and nutritious

And decidedly delicious!

“Why, that’s terrific, sir! You
should really wow ’em with that
one! Gee, Mr. Wade, you must be a
genius to think up stuff like that.”

“Well, hardly a genius — ”

Charley wiped another fitting, ap-
plied the gun. “Oh yes you are, sir!”

“Well . .

Mr. Wade left the garage on light
footsteps. He never sang in the
shower, but tonight he broke tradi-
tion and gave his voice free rein.
And all the while he sang, visions
danced through his mind; visions of
people everywhere, filing into drug-
stores and smoke shops, saying, “I’d
like a Wade Talking Cigarette Case,
please”; visions of more and more
orders pouring into the factory and
the cigarette companies vying with
each other for an exclusive option on
the new rhyme, and the conveyor
belts going faster and faster and the
production-line girls moving like
figures in a speeded-up movie —

“Arthur!”

Mr. Wade turned the shower inter-
com dial to T. “Yes, dear?”

“It’s Betty and Bob,” Mrs. Wade
said. “I can’t find them anywhere!”

“Did you look in the kitchen?”

“I’m in the kitchen now and they
aren’t here and the dishes are all
stacked in the sink and the floor has-
n’t been swept and~”

“I’ll be right there,” Mr. Wade
said.

irOUR GHOST WILL WALK

• • >

He toweled himself hurriedly and
slipped into his shirt, shorts, and
slippers, all the while telling himself
what he’d tell them when he found
them. He’d lay it right on the line
this time: either they got on the ball
and stayed there or he’d really have
their tapes cut out!

Abruptly he remembered that he’d
already made the same threat quite a
number of times, that he had, in fact,
made it that very evening. Was it
possible.? Could his threatening to
have their tapes cut out have had
anything to do with —

But of course it couldn’t have!
They were only androids. What
could their tapes possibly mean to
them.?

Still-

He joined Mrs. Wade in the
kitchen and together they searched
the house from front to back. The
children had retired to their rooms
with their 'TV sets some time earlier
and, when questioned, said they’d
seen nothing of Betty and Bob either.
After the house, Mr. and Mrs. Wade
searched the grounds, with the same
result. Then they tried the garage,
but there was no one there except
Charley, who had just finished Mr.
Wade’s Caddy and was starting in
on Mrs. Wade’s. No, Charley said,
running an appreciative hand along
a silvery upswept tailfin, he’d seen
nothing of them all evening.

“If you ask me,” Mrs. Wade said,
“they’ve nm away.”

“Nonsense. Androids don’t run
away.”

“Oh yes they do. Lots of them. If
you’d watch the newscasts once in a
while instead of mooning all the
time over what a great poet you are,
you’d know about such things. Why,
there was a case just the other day.
One of those old models like yours,
that some other cheapskate thought
he could save money on, ran away.
A mechanic named Kelly or Shelley
or something.”

“Weil, did they find him.?”

“They found him all right. What
was left of him. Can you imagine.?
He tried to cross highway 656!”

Compared to highway 999, high-
way 656 was a sparsely traveled
country road. Mr. Wade felt sick and
his face showed it. He’d be in a fine
fix if he had to replace Betty and
Bob now, after putting up so much
for Charley. He’d been a fool for not
having had them completely con-
verted in the first place.

The distant hum of the traffic was
no longer a pleasant background
sound. There was an ominous qual-
ity about it now. Abruptly Mr. Wade
snapped into action. “Go call the po-
lice,” he told his wife. “Tell them to
get out here right away!”

He turned and headed for his
Caddy. On an afterthought, he
called Charley. “Come along, Char-
ley,” he said. “I might need your
help.” They were nothing but a cou-
ple of antique poets, but you never
could tell. Charley’d be able to han-
dle them all right, though; Charley
could bend a crankshaft with his
bare hands.

“Get in,” Mr. Wade said, and
Charley slid into the seat beside him.
Mr. Wade gunned the 750 h.p. motor
and the Caddy shot down the drive,
tires spinning.

Charley winced. “Mr. Wade,
please!”

“Shut up!” Mr. Wade said.

The drive wound around forested
hills, dipped deep into night-damp
dales. Moonlight was everywhere: on
trees and grass and macadam, in the
very air itself. But Mr. Wade was un-
aware of it. His universe had shrunk
to the length and breadth and height
of the Caddy’s headlights.

When his universe remained emp-
ty, he began to think that perhaps
they hadn’t come this way after all,
that maybe they’d struck off through
the surrounding countryside. Then,
rounding the last curve, he saw the
two familiar figures far down the
drive.

They were about a hundred yards
from the highway, walking hand in
hand, their shoulders touching. Mr.
Wade swore. The fools, he thought.
The ridiculous fools! Talking about
the moon, probably, or some equally
asinine subject, and walking serenely
to their deaths!

He slowed the Caddy when he
came opposite them, and drove
along beside them. If they saw the
car, they gave no evidence of it.
They were strolling dreamily, talk-
ing now and then in low voices. Mr.
Wade hardly recognized their faces.

“Betty,” he called. “Bob! I’ve come
to take you home.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE EiCTION

They ignored him. Completely.
Utterly. Furious, he stopped the car.
Abruptly it occurred to him that he
was acting like a fool, that they
couldn’t possibly react to him as
long as he remained in the Caddy,
because automobiles, not being in-
cluded in their memory banks, could
have no reality for them.

He got out his cigarette case, in-
tending to light a cigarette and per-
haps calm himself —

Light me up and smo\e me.

Blow a ring or two,

I’m a pleasure-packed diversion . .

Created just for you!

For some reason the rhyme infuri-
ated him all the more, and he
jammed the cigarette case back in his
pocket and got out and started
around the car. In his eagerness to
reach Betty and Bob, he skirted the
left front fender too closely and the
case, which had become wedged in
the opening of his pocket, scraped
screechingly along the enamel.

Mr. Wade stopped in his tracks.
Instinctively he wetted his finger
and ran it over the long ragged scar.
“Look Charley,” he wailed. “See
what they made me do!”

Charley had got out on the other
side, had walked around the car, and
was now standing in the moonlight a
few paces away. There was a strange
expression on his face. “I could kill
them,” Mr. Wade went on. “I could
kill them with my bare hands!”

Betty and Bob were moving away
from the car, still walking hand in

VOUR GHOST WILL WALK . . .

hand, still talking in low voices. Be-
yond them the highway showed, a
deadly river of hurtling lights. Bob’s
voice drifted back :

"Your ^host will wal\, you lover of
trees,

(If our loves remain)

In an English lane,

By a cornfield side a-flutter with
poppies . . .”

and suddenly Mr. Wade knew.

He wondered why the answer
hadn’t occurred to him before. It was
so simple, and yet it solved every-
thing. Betty and Bob would be
completely destroyed and yet at the
same time their usefulness in the
Wade menage would be enhanced.
Come to think of it, though, he’d
subconsciously supplied half of the
answer every time he’d threatened to
have their tapes cut out. It was only
the second half that had eluded him:
replace those tapes with tapes con-
taining his own poetry!

Exhilaration flooded him. “All
right, Charley,” he said. “Go get
them. Go get the lousy outdated bas-
tards! . . . Charley.?”

Charley’s expression was more
than merely strange now. It was
frightening. And his eyes — “Char-
ley!” Mr. Wade shouted. “I gave you
an order. Obey it!”

Charley said nothing. He took a
tentative step toward Mr. Wade. An-
other. For the first time Mr. Wade
noticed the 12" crescent wrench in
his hand. “Charley!” he screamed.
“I’m your owner. Don’t you remem-

. 45

ber, Charley.? I’m your owner!” He
tried to back away, felt his buttocks
come up against the fender. Then he
tried to slide along the fender, fren-
ziedly holding up his arms to protect
his face; but his arms were flesh and
bone and the wrench was hardened
steel, as were the sinews of the arm
that wielded it, and it descended, not
deviating an iota from the terrified
target of Mr. Wade’s face, and he slid
limply down the side of the fender
to the macadam and lay there in the
widening pool of his blood.

Charley got the flashlight and the
auto-first-aid kit out of the trunk
and, kneeling by the fender, began
to repaint the ragged wound.

The road was a weird and wind-
ing Wimpolc Street. They walked
along it, hand in hand, lost in a
world they’d never made, a world
that liad no room for them, not even
for their ghosts.

And before them, in the alien
night, the highway purred and
throbbed. It waited . . .

"How do I love thee — " Betty said.

"The year’s at the spring — " said
Bob.

Making love, saly?

The happier they!

Draw yourself up from the light of
the moon.

And let them pass, as they will too
soon.

With the bean flower/ boon.

And the blackbird's tune.

And May, and fund . . .

The pleasing notions of Novotny have ranged, in these pages, from a
lake of pure bourbon to a lottery with Helen of Troy as prize; but the
peculiar talent of Jesse Haimes may well be the most enviable idea
that Novotny has yet conceived, f WARNING: / have gathered that
there are a few readers who object to sex in fantasy. It seems only fair
to warn these poor abstainers from the splendid source that they
should immediately and rapidly skip to page 53.}

0/4 Trick or Two

JOHN NOVOTNY

At nine that evening laura
walked beautifully into the apart-
ment.

“Hello, Jesse,” she said softly.
“For some reason I thought you
had given up.”

“You underestimate me, Laura,”
he said, removing her coat. “And
yourself. You never looked lovelier.”

“Thank you, Jesse,” she smiled,
accepting a glass of champagne.
“I’ve never been in better shape.
I’m ready to go ten rounds, if
necessary.”

“That was uncalled-for, darling,”
lie said, hurt. “You make me sound
crude. Perhaps in other days . . .
but now I’m of a different mind.”

“Fine,” Laura applauded, laugh-
ing gayly. “Don’t tell me what role
you’re playing tonight. It will be
more fun if I have to guess.”

Jesse had a wonderful dinner
waiting and they ate by candelight.

Later they sipped benedictine by the
picture window overlooking the
river.

“You make it seem so worthwhile,
Jesse,” Laura murmured. “There are
moments when I almost feel like
giving the devil his due.”

“That’s what I’m planning on,”
Jesse said casually.

“Oh.?” Laura answered question-
ingly. “You expect me to succumb,
to offer myself to you, out of the
goodness of my heart.?”

“Or the badness,” Jesse added.

“I wish you luck.”

“Thank you,” Jesse said. “Then
you agree that should you stand
before me unclothed, I might as-
sume, rightfully, that I have won
the game.?”

“Unclothed — ^by force?”

“No, my dear. No force,” he
smiled.

“I agree that under those circum-

A TRICK OR TWO

stances you’d have a pretty good
assumption,” Laura said. “When do
you expect me to go into this dis-
robing act.?”

“Most anytime,” Jesse said. “To
hasten your decision, let me show
you a few little presents I have for
you.”

Jesse kept himself from hurrying
as he led her to the two closet doors.
He opened one and pointed to the
furs hanging inside.

“My choice.?” Laura asked.

“All of them,” Jesse said. “Look
them over.”

She stepped inside the cbset and
Jesse smiled. His mind raced over
the events of the past week.

Jesse Haimes sipped his Scotch
pensively, then placed the glass
decisively on the table and leaned
toward his friend.

“Mind you, Tom,” he said, “it
isn’t that I haven’t tried. Lord
knows. I’ve played the gentleman,
the brother, and the man-of-the-
world. I’ve been patient, impatient,
persuasive.”

“Generous?” Tom inquired.

“Abundantly,” Jesse insisted, “I
even bought her a poodle.”

“And through it all,” Tom Casey
smiled, “Miss Laura Carson remains
unconquered, unsullied, unbowed.”

“Disgustingly so,” Jesse admitted.

“Let’s have another drink,” Tom
suggested, signaling the waiter. “Or
do you have a conference this
afternoon?”

“Nothing,” Jesse said. “A few

letters to get out and some desks
must be moved. We’re changing the
accounting room to the Forty-eighth
Street side.”

“Dry work,” Tom Casey said.
“Another scotch is definitely in
order.”

They sat back, waiting for the
drinks, and pondered the enigma of
Miss Laura Carson. Tom watched
Jesse light a cigarette. As Jesse
brought his hand down to drop the
match in the ash tray, Tom reached
forward and snapped his fingers.

“Abra-ca-dabra,” he said. The ash
tray vanished. Jesse’s hand froze and
he stared at the spot where the glass
container had rested. Finally he
smiled foolishly.

“Well done, Tom,” he said. “How
did you do it?”

“Magic,” Tom said, self-con-
sciously. “I don’t usually fool
around in public, but I just had
the urge.”

“I didn’t know that was your
hobby.”

“It’s not,” Tom laughed. “That’s
my trick. Nothing else.”

“Bring it back,” Jesse said.

“I can’t,” Tom confessed. “I can
make small items disappear. Where
they go, I have no idea.”

Jesse stopped smiling and began
to frown. He restrained himself as
the waiter approached and served
the drinks. He watched the man
walk away; then he turned hur-
riedly back to Tom Casey.

“Are you trying to tell me that
this business is on the level?” he

demanded, gesturing aimlessly at
the center of the table. Tom nodded
foolishly.

“I don’t believe it,” Jesse said.
“After all . . . come now, Tom.”

“Put your swizzle stick out there,”
Tom said.

Jesse slowly pushed the plastic
stirring rod to the spot indicated.
Tom snapped his fingers at the
stick.

“Abra-ca-dabra,” he said. The ob-
ject disappeared.

“Good Lord,” Jesse breathed,
“And to think I doubted Dun-
ninger.”

The two men sat silently until
Jesse called the waiter.

“Two more scotches,” he ordered,
“and an ash tray.”

The waiter brought the drinks
and the ash tray, surveyed the table
and its occupants suspiciously, and
departed.

“Can you teach me.?” Jesse asked.

“I don’t think so,” Tom ex-
plained. “An old proofreader out in
Denver told me about it. Everybody
has one trick he can do. The proof-
reader could change water into
whisky. That was his trick and a
very handy one.”

“Do you mean I have some bit
of magic I can do.?” Jesse asked
excitedly.

“Everyone has,” Tom said. “Mine
you just saw.”

“How does a person find out his
trick — if that’s what you call it.?”

Tom shrugged.

“Most people never do, I guess,”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

he said. “I just stumbled on mine.”

“Maybe mine is the same as
yours,” Jesse suggested.

“Try it,” Tom said, isolating the
ash tray. Jesse replaced it with a
swizzle stick.

“The waiter would raise hell
about another ash tray,” he ex-
plained. He took a deep breath,
snapped his fingers, and intoned
the necessary phrase. The stirrer
remained.

“Did I do something wrong?”
Jesse asked hopefully. Tom shook
his head.

“Perfect technique,” he said.
“Negative result.”

“I guess I have a different talent,”
Jesse murmured. “Damn it! How
am I going to find out what it is.?”

“It’s not that important,” Tom
Casey said. “Unless it’s the water
and whisky deal, of course.”

The waiter was summoned again
and soon Jesse was glaring bale-
fully at a glass of water.

“No luck,” Tom said. “I wouldn’t
worry about it. As I said, I hardly
ever use mine. It’s embarrassing
when people ask questions. I can’t
explain the trick, so I automatically
am classified as a stinker or a
drunken bum. I’d just forget about
it if I were you.”

Jesse shook his head. The two
men finished their drinks and left
the restaurant. As they parted at
Madison and 49th, Jesse smiled at
his companion,

“First time in weeks I’ve been
able to think about something other

A TRICK OR TWO

than Laura Carson,” he said. “See
you next week.”

“These letters, Mr. Haimes — ”

Jesse smiled at the slim brunette.

“Yes, Carol?”

“They’re ready for your signa-
ture. And Mr. Wigmann would like
to have two more cabinets in Ac-
counts Payable.”

“Fine,” Jesse said, accepting the
papers. “Tell Wiggy he’ll have his
cabinets in a few days.”

He watched his secretary walk to
her desk in the far corner of the
large, tastefully decorated office they
shared. After the girl settled at the
desk and was busy calling Wig-
mann’s secretary, Jesse drew his
hand out from under his own desk.
He looked down expectantly at the
hat he held.

“Abra-ca-dabra,” he muttered. No
rabbit materialized.

“Thank God,” he whispered. “I
wasn’t particularly anxious to have
that ability.”

Carol finished her call and came
across the office.

“Yes, Carol?”

“Mr. Wigmann requests that if the
cabinets are among tbe surplus items
in the next room, could he look at
them, in order to plan where they
will be placed.”

“Tell him to come over in five
minutes. We may have to move a
few things.”

The girl returned to the phone
and then joined Jesse as he unlocked
the door to the small office next to

his. It had been pressed into use as
a storage area during the reorgan-
ization period and was filled with
varied pieces of office equipment.
Jesse pointed.

“As I suspected,” he said. “Damn!
All the way in the back. I’ll push
these desks aside if you’ll move the
lamps and chairs.”

After a few moments of coopera-
tive endeavor Carol and Jesse
Haimes stood before the two cabi-
nets. Each was two and a half feet
wide by seven feet tall. The cabinets
had no shelves and were intended
to hold clothing. Jesse opened one
of the metal doors and looked in-
side.

“Wiggy will have to arrange for
shelves,” he said, closing the door.
“He can call Griswold and — ”

Jesse stopped and looked at the
cabinet. Dimly he recalled a vaude-
ville act he had once enjoyed.

“Carol,” he said, hesitantly.
“Would you — well, this may seem
odd-”

“Yes, Mr. Haimes?”

Jesse decided that wording was
less important than results.

“Would you mind stepping into
this cabinet for one moment?”

Carol smiled.

“Into the — cabinet?”

“Yes. Into the cabinet.”

“I don’t understand.”

“In all probability,” Jesse said,
“there will be nothing to under-
stand. If there is I will explain la-
ter.”

“I hope so,” Carol said, still smil-

ing. She lifted the hem of her skirt
slightly and stepped up into the
locker-like affair.

“Thank you,” Jesse said. He
closed the door and stepped back.
With squared shoulders he faced the
cabinet.

“Abra-ca-dabra,” he said, softly
enough so that Carol couldn’t hear.
He opened the cabinet and smiled
in assuringly. Jesse swallowed hard
as he looked at the empty space. Hur-
riedly he leaped to the remaining
cabinet and opened the door.

“Don’t be alarmed, Car — Oh,
Lord!”

Carol stood framed in the cabinet.
She was nude and she was angry.
Jesse looked away and then, decid-
ing the hell with it, he looked back.

“What have you done with your
clothes .? ” he asked.

“What have / done?” Carol said,
ominously. She pushed one bare foot
forward, then pointed to her neck.
“From pumps to my black choker
ribbon. Whsst. You’ve never been
better.”

She stepped carelessly from the
cabinet and sank into one of the
surplus swivel chairs.

“You said you’d explain,” she said.
“This had better be good. Your
apartment is one thing, the office is
entirely different. I’ve always in-
sisted— ”

She stopped and looked at the
cabinet she had just vacated.

“That’s not the one I — Oh broth-
er, you better start talking. I think
I’ll scream.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

She opened her mouth and Jesse
leaped forward to cover it with his
hand.

“I can explain!” he said quickly.
Carol relaxed and Jesse took his
hand away.

“OK,” she said. “Explain,”

Jesse looked at the two cabinets
and then back at Carol.

“I can’t,” he said unhappily. Carol
opened her mouth wide.

“Wait!” Jesse pleaded. “I mean I
don’t know how it happened. Pass-
ing you from one cabinet to another
just happens to be my trick.”

“Oh,” Carol said, raising her eye-
brows. “Your trick, eh? Do you
mind if your naked little secretary
says you certainly have a fine collec-
tion. And may I ask what you in-
tend to do right now?”

She swiveled in the chair and
made a complete circle.

“Not very much room in here,”
she said tersely.

“Carol, I—”

“Apartments are apartments. Of-
fices are offices. And I don’t care for
that trick. If you — ”

"Mr. Haimes. Mr. Haimes."

They both leaped up as Mr. Wig-
mann’s voice floated in from Jesse’s
office.

“Wait there!” Jesse shouted.

“Oh, I can come in and — ”

“No,” Jesse shouted frantically.
“Just wait a moment. Until I get
things — straightened out.”

“Very well,” Wiggy answered.
They could hear his steps as he
wandered about the office.

A TRICK OR TWO

“Get in the cabinet,” Jesse whis-
pered to Carol.

“Like hell,” Carol whispered,
“Never again.”

“Carol,” Jesse pleaded. He leaned
down and kissed her full on the lips.
“Ten dollars a week raise. The Win-
ter Garden and the Stork Club one
evening next week. A new gown.”

Carol melted.

“Mr. Haimes. That isn’t neces-
sary.”

“It certainly is,” he said. “I’ve done
you an injustice. Offices are offices.
I promise to remember.”

She threw both bare arms around
his neck and kissed him. Drawing
away, she smiled, “Into the cabinet.”
As she stepped in, Jesse permitted
himself one light pat on Carol’s pert
rump and closed the door.

“Wiggy,” he called. “Now you can
come in. I’ve finally located them.”

Mr. Wigmann walked into the
smaller room and approached the
cabinets.

“Excellent, perfect,” he said.
“Good of you, Haimes, to go to
the trouble. Heavens, you’re perspir-
ing something fierce. I assure you I
could have waited.”

“Not at all,” Jesse assured him,
leading him away.

“But the insides — ”

“Nothing. Bare,” Jesse coughed
on the last word. “You’ll have to
arrange for shelves. See Griswold.”

He ushered Wiggy to the door,
shook hands, and propelled the little
man into the hall. Jesse then went
to the phone and dialed.

“Miss Devins.? Jesse Haimes,” he
announced. “No, don’t call B. J. I
want to speak to you. I have a favor
to ask. My club is putting on a show
and we’re missing one outfit — a
girl’s. I’d have asked Carol but she
is out on business at the moment. —
You will? Fine. — Size? — Oh, about
Carol’s size. One each of the follow-
ing; dress . . .”

A little later he returned to the
small office and released Carol.

“Don’t worry about your clothes,”
he said. “I’ve sent down for a com-
plete new outfit.”

“Who?”

“B. J.’s secretary. Miss Devins,” he
told her.

“Good,” Carol smiled. “She has
excellent taste and is very conscien-
tious. She’ll take at least an hour.”

Hand in hand they returned to
Jesse’s office.

Three days later he completed the
construction work in his apartment.
The two cabinets were built in flush
with the wall and looked like noth-
ing else than closet doors. Jesse put
his tools away and prepared the final
test. He took the small kewpie doll
and placed it on the floor of closet
number one. Carefully he patted the
lace dress in place and rearranged
the tiny cap. Finally he stood up,
closed the door, and backed off.

“Abra-ca-dabra,” he said, waving
a few fingers negligently. He strode
to cabinet number two, opened the
door, and smiled as he picked up
the shiny little plastic body.

“Excellent,” he murmured. “Now
to call Miss Laura Carson.”

Jesse silently closed the cabinet
door behind Laura as she hummed
through the furs. Quickly he stepped
back and raised his arm.

“Abra-ca-dabra,” he sang.

The room was quiet except for
the soft music Jesse had playing in the
background. He walked to cabinet
two and opened the door. Laura
stood there and Jesse drew a deep
breath even tliough he was prepared.
She smiled, unflustered and com-
pletely calm, as she stepped from the
cabinet. Her body was flawless, per-
fect, warm and soft. Graceful move-
ments shadowed ivory-tan skin as
she walked in the soft hghts. Her
dark hair was long and lay tan-
talizingly on exquisite shoulders.
Jesse was forced to lock his hands
behind his back. Laura walked half-
way across the room, then turned
and looked at the two doors.

“You’re naked,” Jesse said hoarse-
ly. Laura looked down at herself.

“Never more so,” she laughed. As
her body moved in laughter Jesse

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

was forced to remove his tie. Laura
walked to the big window where
moonlight crept across her body.
Jesse removed his shirt.

“You seem very much at ease,” he
remarked. “No surprise.?”

Laura shook her head as he con-
tinued undressing.

“It’s quite obvious that you have
discovered your trick,” she said.

For a moment Jesse stopped, bal-
ancing on one leg.

“Even so,” he said, determined
not to lose the advantage, “the cir-
cumstances have worked out.”

“That’s true,” Laura said, “but
please do me a favor.”

“Yes.?”

“Will you hold that fire iron out
at arm’s length?”

Jesse walked wonderingly to the
fireplace, picked up the poker, and
held it out. Laura raised a long slen-
der forefinger and pointed at the
brass tool; and in Jesse’s hand the
poker became pliable, soft, and wilt-
ed like wax before a flame. He
stared at it in horror.

“Jesse,” Laura said. “I discovered
my trick long ago.”

The Unfortunate TopologiSl

A burleycue dancer, a pip
Named Virginia, could peel in a zip;
But she read science fiction
And died of constriction
Attempting a Mdbius strip.

S. D. GOTTESMAN

Those who skipped the Novotny story because it contained sex may
safely resume their reading here, even though Mr. Anderson’s narrative
is, as its title indicates, primarily concerned with nothing else. For it is
surely a corollary to Comstock’s First Law ("the censorability of
mammae varies in inverse ratio to the amount of melanin in the
skin”) that the obscenity of the sexual processes of any race varies in
direct ratio to the kinship of that race with the race judging; and An-
derson’s wholly alien Mercurians are much too silicious to be salacious.
But their sex-life, if unalluring, offers a mystery upon the solution to
which depend the lives of two Earthmen — and possibly the future
of Earth.

Life Cycle

hy POUL ANDERSON

“Well, all right! I’ll go to their
damned temple myself!”

“You must be crazy even to think
of such a tonteria,” said Juan Navar-
ro. He sucked hard on his pipe, de-
cided it was finished, and knocked
out the dottle. “They would tear you
in pieces.”

“Quicker than starving to death
on this hellhound lump of rock.”

“Very small pieces.” Navarro. sat
down on a workbench and swung
his legs. He was a Basque, medium-
sized, longheaded, dark-haired,
with the mountaineer’s bony inde-
pendence in his face. He was also a
biologist of distinction, an amateur
violinist, and a hungry man waiting
to die. “You don’t understand, Joe.

Those Dayside beings are not just
another race. They are gods.”

Joe Kingsbury Thayendanegea,
who was a stocky Mohawk from
upper New York State, paced the
caging space of the room, hands be-
hind his back, and swore. If he had
had a tail, he would have lashed it.
He was the pilot and engineer, the
only other Terrestrial on Mercury.
When you dove this far down into
the sun’s monstrous gravitational
well, you couldn’t take a big crew
along.

“So what else can you think of?”
he challenged. “Shall we draw
straws and barbecue the loser?”

Antella, the owl-faced Martian
mineralogist, made a harsh cawing

in his gray-feathered throat. “Best it
be me,” he advised. “Then no one is
technically guilty of cannibalism.”

“Not much meat on that skinny
little frame of yours, amigo," said
Navarro. “And a human body
would have so many other uses after
one was finished with the organic
parts. Make the vertebrae into chess-
men— the ribs into Venetian blinds
for bay windows — yes, and the skulls
would make distinctive mousetraps.”

Kingsbury shook heavy shoulders
and thrust his beaky face forward.
“What are we yattering about?” he
demanded. “We’ve got a week’s slim
rations left aboard this clunk. After
that we start starving.”

“So you are going to the temple
and confront the gods and convince
them of the error of their ways. Ka!”
Antella clicked his short, curved bill.
“Or did you think to threaten them
with our one solitary pistol?”

“I’m going to try and find out
what the Twonks — or their gods, if
you insist — have against us,” said
Kingsbury. “Here’s the idea; it’s get-
ting close to sunrise time, and there’ll
be a crowd of ’em at the temple. I’ll
go out on Dayside and find me an
empty Twonk shell and get into it.
With luck, I’ll pass unnoticed long
enough to — ”

Antella’s brass-colored eyes wid-
ened. “The scheme is a bold one,” he
admitted. “As far as I know, there
is strict silence during the ceremo-
nies, whatever they are. You just
might accomplish it.”

Navarro leered. “I know exactly

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

what you would accomplish, Joe. Do
you remember that story you tell me,
oh, last year I think it was? About
the tourist in the North forest, and
the Canuck guide, and the moose
call?”

“Yeah. ‘Ze moose, she — ’ Hey!
What do you mean?”

“Precisely. That temple is a breed-
ing place. They go there to breed.”

“How do you know? I’ve been
tramping around arguing with the
damn Twonks, and you’ve just sat
here in the lab.”

Navarro shrugged. “What else
could I do but my research? I stud-
ied the biochemistry of Mercurian
life. I worked out the life cycle of a
few plants and one insectoidal
form.”

“They all look like insects. But go
on.”

“The first expedition established
no more than that Mercurian life has
a silicate base,” recapitulated Navar-
ro. “Otherwise they were too busy
staying alive and teaching English to
the natives and making maps. But
they brought home specimens, which
were analyzed. And one strange fact
became evident: those specimens
could not reproduce under Twilight
Zone conditions. Yet they live herd
And we see the natives lay eggs,
which hatch; and lower forms bring
forth their own kind in various
ways — ”

“I know,” grunted Kingsbury.
“But why? I mean, what’s so puz-
zling about their reproduction?”

“The cells are totally different,

LIFE CYCLE

both physically and chemically, from
protoplasmic life,” said Navarro.
“But there are analogues; there have
to be. The basic process is the same,
meiosis and mitosis, governed by a
molecular ‘blueprint’ not unlike our
chromosomes. However, though we
know that such processes must take
place, the silicate materials involved
are too stable to undergo them. The
ordinary exothermic reactions which
fuel Mercurian hfe do not produce
enough energy for the cell-duplica-
tion which is growth. In fact, adult
Mercurians are even incapable of
self-repair; wounds do not heal, they
must depend on being so tough that
in this low gravity they suffer few
injuries.”

“So what happens?”

Navarro shrugged. “I do not
know, except this much: that some-
how, at breeding time, they must
pick up an extra charge of energy.
Analyzing small animals, I have
identified the compound which is
formed to store this energy and re-
lease it, by gradually breaking
down, as the organism grows. It is
all used up at maturity. But where
is the temperature necessary to build
up this molecule? Only on Dayside.

“Now these gods are said to live
on Dayside and meet the Twonks of
Twilight at the temple. You know
the breeding ceremonies take place
when hbration has brought the tem-
ple into the sunlight.”

“Go on,” said Antella thought-
fully.

“Pues, one of the plants has this

life cycle: it grows in the Twilight
Zone, on the sunward side, and its
vines are phototropic. Eventually
their growth and the libration bring
them into the light. The spore-pods
burst and the spores are scattered
into the air. A few are blown back
into Twilight, and they are now
fertile; radiation has formed the nec-
essary compound. Or consider one
of the small insectoids I studied. It
breeds here in the usual manner,
then the female crawls out into the
light to lay her eggs. When they
hatch, the little ones scurry back to
the shade, and some of them reach
shelter before they fry. Wasteful, of
course, but even on this barren plan-
et nature is a notorious spendthrift.”

“Wait a minute!” interrupted
Kingsbury. Navarro liked to hear
himself talk, but there are limits.
“Are you implying that the Dayside
gods are merely the sun? That be-
cause the Twonks have to have light
when they breed, they’ve built up a
sort of Apollo-cum-fertility cult?”

“Why not? There are races on
Earth and Mars with similar beliefs.
To this day, here and there in my
own Pyrenees, many women believe
the wind can make them pregnant.”
Navarro laughed. “It is a good ex-
cuse anyhow, no?”

“But damn it, there’s Dayside life
too. Life that never comes into Twi-
light.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Quite differ-
ent from Twilight biology — after all,
it has to live at a temperature of four
hundred degrees Centigrade. Possi-

bly the Twonks regard some Day-
side animal as a sort of fertility
totem. I am only saying this: that if
the gods are actually the sun, you
will have Satan’s own time persuad-
ing the sun to take back its edict
that we must die.”

In the end, there was a decision.
Navarro thought Kingsbury a sui-
cidal idiot . . . but what choice was
there They would go to the temple
together, disguised, and find out
what they could; if there were no
gods, but only some fanatically con-
servative priestess behind the death
sentence, a .20-caliber Magnum auto-
matic might make her see reason.
Amelia would stay behind to guard
the ship; he couldn’t take heat as
well as an Earthling.

The humans donned their space-
suits and went through the airlock.
Navarro had the gun, Kingsbury
armed himself with a crowbar; at
last and worst, he thought savagely,
he’d crack a few Mercurian cara-
paces.

They stepped out into desolation.
Behind them lay the Explorer, a
crippled metal giant, no more to
them than a shelter. In the end, per-
haps, a coffin. There was no possi-
bility of rescue from Earth — radio
communication was out, with the
sun so close, and Mercury Expedi-
tion Two wasn’t due back for six
months. Earth wouldn’t even realize
they were in trouble till they had
already died.

To right and left, the dry valley

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

lifted into gaunt ocherous peaks,
against a dusky sky where a few
hard stars glittered. There were
bushes scattered about, low things
with blue metallic-looking leaves. A
small animal bounded from them,
its shell agleam in the wan light.
The ground was slaty rubble, flaked
off in departed ages when Mercury
Still had weather. Above the peaks to
the left hung a white glare, the in-
visible sun. It would never be seen
from here, but a few miles further
west the planet’s libration would
lift it briefly and unendurably over
the near horizon.

There was a wind blorving; the
wind is never quiet on Mercury,
where one side is hot enough to melt
lead and the other close to absolute
zero. It sent a ghostly whirl of dust-
devils across the valley. There
wasn’t much air: a man would have
called it a soft vacuum, and not fit
to breathe at any density. Most of it
had long ago escaped into space or
frozen on Darkside, but now vapor
pressure had struck a balance and
there was some carbon dioxide, nitro-
gen, ammonia, and inert gas free.
Enough to blow fine dust up against
the weak gravity, and to form an
ionosphere which made radio com-
munication possible over the
horizon.

Kingsbury shuddered, remember-
ing green forests and clear streams
under the lordly sky of Earth. What
the devil had inspired him to come
here? Money, he supposed. Earth
needed fissionable ores and Mercury

life cycle

had them, and Expedition Two was
sent to negotiate an agreement with
the natives. The pay was propor-
tional to the risk . . . but what use
is all the money in the cosmos to a
dead man?

“When I get home,” said Navarro
wistfully, “after the parades and ban-
quets— yes, surely there will be par-
ades, with all the pretty girls throw-
ing flowers and kisses at us — after
that I shall retire to my own village
and sit down before the tavern and
order a bottle of the best Amontil-
lado. Three days later I will ask
them to sweep the cobwebs off me.
A week later I shall go home and
sleep.”

“I’ll settle for a tall cold beer in
Gavagan’s,” said Kingsbury. “You
ought to let me take you pubcrawl-
ing in New York sometime — Bah!”
His gauntleted hand made a vicious
gesture at the tumbled ruin of a
landscape. “What makes you think
we ever will get home?”

“Nothing,” said Navarro gently,
“except that I will not permit my-
self to think otherwise.”

They rounded a tall red crag and
saw how the valley broadened into
cultivated fields, ironberry bushes
and flintgrain stalks. On the dusky
edge of vision was the Mercurian
hive, a giant dome of crushed rock
in which several thousand natives
dwelt. There were hundreds of such
barracks, scattered around the Twi-
light Zone, with a temple for every
dozen or so. Apparently there was
no variation in language or culture

over the whole planet — understand-
able when the habitable area was so
small. And it was an open question
how much individual personality a
Mercurian had, and how much of
her belonged to the hive-mind.

Close at hand was the hut which
held their lives. It was a crude, roof-
less structure, four stone walls and
an open doorway. The first expedi-
tion had erected it with native help,
to store supplies and tools — it made
the ship roomier. The Explorer’s
crew had used it similarly, putting
in most of their food and the bulky
ion<ontrol rings from the reaction
drive. Again the natives had lent a
willing hand.

There were four guards outside
the hut. They were armed only with
spears and clubs. It would be easy
enough to shoot them down. But
before anything could be transferred
back to the ship, the entire hive
would come swarming, and there
weren’t that many bullets.

“Let’s go talk to them,” said Na-
varro.

“What’s the use?” asked Kings-
bury. “I’ve talked to those animated
hulks till my larynx needs a re-
tread.”

“I have an idea — I want to check
on it.” Navarro’s clumsy suit went
skimming over the ashen ground.
Kingsbury followed with a mum-
bled oath.

The nearest guard hefted her spear
and swiveled antennae in their direc-
tion. Otherwise there was no move-
ment in her. She stood six feet tall.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

broad as a spacesuited man, her exo-
skeleton shimmering blue, her head
featureless except for the glassy eyes.
With four three-fingered arms, tight-
ly curled ovipositor, and sliding
joints of armor, she looked like a
nightmare insect. But she wasn’t;
a dragonfly or a beetle was man’s
brother beside this creature of sili-
cone cells and silicate blood and
shell of beryllium alloy. Kingsbury
thought of her as a kind of robot —
well, yes, she was alive, but where
did you draw the line between the
robot and the animal ?

Navarro stopped before her. She
waited. None of her sisters moved.
It was a disconcerting habit, never
to open conversation.

The Basque cleared his throat. “I
have come — oh, hell.” With his teeth
he switched his helmet radio to the
band the natives could sense. “I wish
to ask again why you deny us per-
mission to use our own food.”

The answer crackled in their ear-
phones. “It is the command of the
gods.”

Kingsbury stood listening to that
nonhuman accent and speculating
just what sort of religion these en-
tities did have. They had emotions —
they must, being alive — ^but the de-
gree of correspondence to human or
Martian feeling was doubtful.

It wasn’t strange that they com-
municated by organically generated
FM radio pulses. The atmosphere
didn’t carry enough sound to make
ears worthwhile. But constant sub-
mergence in the thoughts of every

other Mercurian within ten miles
... it must do something to the
personality. Make the society as a
whole more intelligent, perhaps—
the natives had readily learned Eng-
lish from the first expedition, while
men hadn’t yet made sense out of the
native language. But there was prob-
ably little individual awareness. A
sort of ant mind: ants collectively
did remarkable things but were hope-
less when alone.

Navarro smiled, a meaningless au-
tomatic grimace behind his face-
plate. “Can you not tell me why the
gods have so decreed.? You were all
friendly enough when my race last
visited you. What made the gods
change their minds?”

No answer. That probably meant
the Twonk didn’t know either.

“You could at least let us have
back our control rings and enough
food for the journey home. I assure
you, we would leave at once.”

“No.” The voice was alike empty
of rancor and mercy. “It is required
that you die. The next strangers to
come will, then, not be forewarned
and we can dispose of them too.
This land will be shunned.”

“If we get desperate enough, we
will start fighting you. We will kill
many.”

“That I — we do not understand.
We are letting you die this way
because it is easiest. If you fight us,
then we shall fight you, and over-
whelm you with numbers; so why
do you not die without making use-
less trouble for yourselves?”

Lira CYCLE

“That isn’t in our nature.”

“I — we do not know what you
mean by ‘nature.’ Every She, when
she has laid as many eggs as she can,
goes out to the sun and returns to
those which you name gods. Death
is a correct termination when there
is no further use for the organism.”

“Men think differently,” said Na-
varro. “Of course, as a more or less
good Catholic, I consider my body
only a husk . . . but I still want to
keep it as long as possible.”

No reply, except for some crack-
ling gibberish. The Mercurians were
talking to each other. Weaker over-
tones made Kingsbury suspect that
several Twonks within the hive were
joining the discussion — or the stream
of consciousness, or whatever you
wanted to call the rumination of a
semi-collective mind.

“Look here, my friend,” said Na-
varro. “You know our purposes. We
want to get certain minerals from
you. You have no use for them, and
we would pay you well, in tools and
machinery you cannot make for
yourselves.”

“It would be mutually advantage-
ous,” agreed the Twonk. “When
the first ship came, we considered it
an excellent idea. But since then the
gods have told us your sort must not
be allowed to live,”

‘Tor Dios! Why?”

“The gods did not say.”

“You serve these gods,” said Na-
varro harshly. “I believe you give
them food . . . right? And tools and
anything else they want. You obey

their least whim. What do you gain
from them?”

No answer,

“Can we talk to these gods? May-
be we can persuade them — ”

“It is forbidden you to see the
Living Light.” Another conference.
“Perhaps you will agree to die and
stop bothering us if we tell you the
gods are needful to our life. They
give us pure metal — ”

“Most of which you make into
tools for them,” snapped Navarro.
“We could do the same for you.”

“That is a small thing. But the
gods are needful to our life. It is the
gods who put life into our eggs.
Without them no young would be
hatched. It is thus necessary that we
obey them.”

“Cut it out, Juan,” snarled Kings-
bury. “I’ve been through this rig-
marole a hundred times. It’s no use.”

Navarro nodded absent-mindedly
and trudged off. They switched to a
different radio band, one the natives
could not “hear,” but said nothing
for a while.

“Has it ever occurred to you,”
asked Navarro finally, “that nobody
has ever seen a male Mercurian?”

“Sure. They’re hermaphrodites.”

“That was assumed by the first
expedition. An assumption only, of
course. They could not vivisect a live
Twonk—”

“/ sure could!”

“ — and the old ones all go out on
Dayside to die. The only chance for
anatomical studies would be to find
one which had met a violent end

here in Twilight, and there was al-
ways too much else to do.”

“Well, why shouldn’t they be her-
maphrodites? Oysters are.”

“At certain times of the year. But
oysters are a low form of life. On
Earth, Mars and Venus, the higher
one goes on the evolutionary scale,
the more sharp the distinction be-
tween the sexes."

“All right, maybe their males are
very small.”

“As with some fish? Possibly. But
most improbable. All their eggs are
about the same size, you know,”

“Who cares?” snorted Kingsbury,
“I just want to go home.”

“I care. I have a tidy mind. And,
too — Earth needs that uranium and
thorium. We will never get it unless
we can circumvent this religion of
theirs, either by persuading the gods
or by . . . hm . . . destroying the
cult. But to accomplish the latter, we
will first have to understand the
creed.”

They came out on a road of sorts,
a narrow track in the shale, stamped
out by thousands of years of feet.
There were natives working in the
fields, and before the hive they could
see smiths hammering cold iron and
copper into implements. A few
young were in sight, unhumanly
solemn at their play. None paid any
attention to the outworlders.

Navarro pointed to a smith. “It is
true what the Twonk said, that the
gods supply their metal?”

“Yes,” said Kingsbury. “At least,
so I’ve been told, and I do think the

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Twonks are unable to tell a lie. Be-
ing radio-telepathic, y’know, they
couldn’t lie to each other, so the
idea would never occur to them.”

“Hm . . . they do not have fire
here, not in this sleazy atmosphere.
They must have been in a crude
neolithic stage until the gods started
smelting ores for them. I imagine
that could be done with mirrors
focusing the Dayside heat on — oh, a
mixture of crushed hematite and
some reducing material.”

“Uh-huh. And the gods get the
pick of whatever the Twonks make
out of the metal.” Kingsbury cleared
his throat to spit, remembered he
was in a spacesuit, and swallowed,
“It’s perfectly clear, Juan. There are
two intelligent races on Mercury.
The Daysiders have set up in busi-
ness as gods. They don’t want
humans around because they’re
afraid we’ll spoil their racket and
make ’em work for a living.”

“Obviously,” said Navarro. “The
problem is, how to convince the
Twonks of this? To do that, we
shall first have to study the nature
of the Dayside beings.”

They mounted a razorback ridge
and clapped down glare filters. Be-
fore them was the sun.

It burned monstrous on the hori-
zon, a white fury that drowned the
stars and leaped back off the with-
ered land. Even here, with shadows
lapping his feet and the refrigera-
tion unit at full blast, Kingsbury
felt how the heat licked at him.

“God!” he whispered. “How far

LIFE CYCLE

can we go into that blazing hell?”

“Not very far,” said Navarro. “We
shall have to hope some Twonks
died close by. Come!” He broke
into long low-gravity bounds, down
the slope and out onto the plain.

Squinting through tormented eyes,
Kingsbury made out a shimmering
pool at the horizon. It spouted as he
watched . . . molten lead? With the
speed he had and the sharp curvature
of the surface, the sun was rising
visibly as he ran.

Even here there was life. A crystal-
line tree squatted near a raw pin-
nacle, stiff and improbable. A small
thing with many legs scuttcred
away, shell too bright to look at. Bas-
ically, Dayside life had the silicate
form of Twilight, many of the com-
pounds identical — a common ances-
try a billion years ago, when Mer-
cury still had water — but this life
was adapted to a heat that made lead
run liquid.

“This . . . road . . . goes on,”
panted Kingsbury. “Must be ... a
graveyard . . , somewhere — ”

His skin was prickling now, as
charged particles ate in through the
armor. His underclothing was limp
with sweat. His tongue felt like a
swollen lump of wood.

This was farther into Dayside
than men had ever gone before.
Through the dizziness, he won-
dered how even a Twonk could sur-
vive the trip . . . only, of course,
they didn’t. The natives had told
the first expedition that their old
ones went out into the sunlight to

die. There’d be no one to bury them,
and the shells weren’t volatile —

He stumbled over the first one
before he knew it. When his gaunt-
lets touched the ground, he yelled.
Navarro pulled him up again. There
was a dazzle in their helmets, they
squinted and gasped with dry lungs
and thought they heard their brains
sizzling.

Dead Twonks, thousands of them,
scattered around like broken ma-
chines, empty-eyed, but the light de-
monic on their carapaces . . . Kings-
bury picked one up. Even in Mercur-
ian gravity, it seemed to have oddly
little weight. Navarro took another.
Its arms and legs flapped horribly
as he ran back eastward.

They never remembered that run-
ning. After they had fallen on the
dark side of the ridge, they must
have fainted, for the next memory
was of stirring and a slow awareness
that they were embracing dead Mer-
curians.

Kingsbury put his lips to his can-
teen nozzle and sucked water up
the hose. It was nearly scalding, but
he had never drained so sweet a
draught. Then he. lay and shud-
dered for another long while.

“Bueno" croaked his companion.
“We made it.”

They sat up and regarded their
loot. Both shells had split open
down the front, along the line of
weakness where the ventral scutes
joined. They had expected to find
the shriveled remnants of “organic”
material, dried flesh and blackened

tendons and collapsed veins. But
there was nothing.

The shells were empty.

It was a long circuitous walk back
to the ship. They didn’t want any
natives to see them. After that there
was a wonderful time of sleeping
while Amelia worked.

They didn’t stop to think about
the implications until it was too late
to think very much at all. Sunrise
would occur at the temple in a few
hours, and it was quite a ways from
here.

Antella’s claw-like hands gestured
proudly at the shells. “See, I have
hinged the front plates so you can
get in and out. Your radios are con-
nected to the antennae, though how
you expect to talk Mercurian if any-
one converses with you, I do not
understand. This harness will sup-
port the shells around your suits. Na-
turally, you cannot use the lower
arms, but I have wired them into a
life-like position.”

Kingsbury drew hard on a cigaret.
It might be the last one he ever
smoked. “Nice work,” he said.
“Now as for the plan itself, we’ll just
have to play by ear. We’II get inside
the temple with the others, see what
we can see, and hope to get out
again undamaged. If necessary, we’ll
shuck these disguises and fight our
way back here. Even in spacesuits,
we can outrun any Twonk.”

Navarro shook his head. “A most
forlorn hope,” he muttered. “And if
we should succeed, do you realize

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

how many xenologists will pour the
vials of wrath on our heads for
disrupting native culture?”

“That bothers me a lot,” snorted
Kingsbury.

“I, of course, can claim to be
carrying out the historic traditions
of my own people,” said Navarro
blandly. “It was not the Saracens,
but the Basques who slew Roland at
Roncesvalles.”

“Why’d they do that?”

“They didn’t like the way Charle-
magne was throwing his weight
around. Unfortunately, you, my
friend, cannot say you are merely
preserving your own culture. These
Twonks have no scalps to lift.”

“Hell,” said Kingsbury, “my cul-
ture for the past hundred years has
been building skyscrapers and
bridges. Come on, let’s shove.”

It was a clumsy business getting
into the shells, but once the plates
were latched shut and the harness
adjusted, it was not too awkward a
disguise. The heads could not be
turned on their necks when you
wore a spacehelmet inside, but An-
tella had filled the empty eye-sockets
with wide-angle lenses. Kingsbury
hoped he wouldn’t be required to
wink, or move all four arms, or
waggle the ovipositor, or speak Mer-
curian; but otherwise, if he was
careful, he ought to pass muster.

The humans left the ship and
went down the valley, moving with
the stiff native stride. Not till they
were past the hive did they speak.
Kingsbury’s belly muscles were taut.

LIFE CYCLE

but none of the autochthones paid
him any special heed. It was for-
tunate that the Mercurians were not
given to idle gossip.

Presently he found himself on a
broad, smoothly laid road. It ran
straight northwest, through a forest
of gleaming barrel-shaped plants
where the small wildlife of Twilight
scuttled off into the dusk. More and
more natives joined them, tall sol-
emn figures streaming in from side
roads onto the highway. Many were
laden with gifts, iron tools and flash-
ing gems and exquisitely wrought
stone vessels . . . did the gods drink
molten lead out of those? There was
no speech on the communication
band, only the quiet pulse of cur-
rents oscillating in nerves that were
silver wires.

Ghostly journey, through a dark
chaotic wilderness of rock and crys-
talline forest, among a swarm of
creatures out of dreams. It shocked
Kingsbury how small man and
man’s knowledge were in the illimit-
able universe.

He switched to the other band
and said harshly, “Juan, maybe we
are nuts. Even if we get away with
it, what can we hope to do? Suppose
one of these Twonks pulled a simi-
lar stunt in your church — wouldn’t
that just make you fighting mad?’’

“Yes, of course,” answered the
other man. “Unless by such means
the Twonk proved to me that my
faith was based on a fraud. Natur-
ally, she would not be able to do so;
but assuming for the sake of dis-

cussion that she did, my philosophy
would come crashing down about
my ears. Then I should be quite
ready to listen to her.”

“But God! How can we imagine
these critters think like us?”

“They don’t. But that is in our
favor, because they are actually more
logical than we humans. They have
freely admitted that the only reason
they obey the gods is that those are
essential to fertility.”

“Well . . . maybe the gods are!”

“Yes, yes, I am quite sure of it.
But I am equally sure that there is
nothing supernatural about it. Sup-
pose, for instance, that a dose of
sunlight is necessary for reproduc-
tion. A class of priestesses may have
capitalized on this fact — I am not
sure how, given the Mercurian tele-
pathy, but perhaps the priestesses can
think on a different band. Now if
we can show that the sunlight alone
is required, and the priestesses are
mere window-dressing, then I am
sure the Twonks will get rid of
them.”

Kingsbury grinned with scant
mirth. “And we’re supposed to find
this out and prove it in one
ghmpse?”

“This was originally your idea,
amigo.”

“Yeh. Please don’t rub it in.”

They walked on, silent, thinking
of Earth’s remote loveliness. An hour
passed. It grew hotter, and the west-
ern blaze climbed into the sky until
you could see the great lens of
zodiacal light just above the hills.

and more natives joined the proces-
sion until there were several thous-
and pouring along the road. Kings-
bury and Navarro stayed close to-
gether, near the middle of the crowd.

Black against the blinding sky,
they saw the temple. It stood on a
high ridge, a columned building of
red granite, curiously reminiscent of
old Egyptian work. A flat roof cov-
ered the front half; the rear was
open, but walled off from sight.

The pilgrimage moved between
basalt statues onto a flagged plaza
before the temple. There it halted,
motionless as only a non-breathing
Mercurian can be. Kingsbury tuned
back to the communication band
and heard that they were chanting —
at least, he supposed the eery whin-
ing rise-and-fall of radio pulses was
music. He kept his own mouth shut;
no one in that entranced collectivity
would realize he wasn’t joining in.

A line of Mercurians emerged from
the colonnade. They must be priest-
esses or servitors, for there were
geometric patterns daubed on their
shells. They halted before the wor-
shipers. Gravely, those who bore
gifts advanced, bowed down, and
laid them at the feet of the clergy.
The articles were picked up and
carried back into the temple.

Kingsbury sweated and shivered
in his spacesuit. What if the ritual
included some fancy dance.'* He
hoped Navarro, who had the gun,
could break out of his shell fast
enough to use it. None of the
natives were armed, and a human

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

was a match for any ten Mercurians,
but there must be five thousand of
them around him.

The glare became a sudden flame.
Sunrise! The shadow of the temple
fell over the plaza, but Kingsbury
narrowed his eyes to slits and still
his head ached.

He was dimly aware of the priest-
esses returning. Their voices twit-
tered, and the chant ended. A hun-
dred Mercurians walked forth, up
the stairs and into the doorway. An-
other hundred and another hundred
. . . They were not quite so impas-
sive now. Kingsbury could see that
those near him were trembling with
excitement.

Now his and Navarro’s line was
on the move. He saw that one of the
priestesses was leading them. They
entered between the pillars and went
across a room of mosaics and down
a hall. At its end were passages
leading to a number of roofless
courts into which the sunlight fell.
His party took one.

The priestess stood aside, and the
procession went on in.

Against the radiance, Kingsbury
could just see that there was a door-
way on the western side and that
daises were built into the floor. The
Twonks were settling themselves on
those, waiting — He switched to the
private band: “Juan, what happens
now.?’’

“What do you think.?” answered
the Basque. His voice shook, but
there was a wryness in it. “This is
where they breed, isn’t it.?”

LIFE CYCLE

“If one of ’em makes a pass at me
—shall I try to play along?”

“I think there is something against
it in Leviticus — nor could you, ah,
respond. ... We shall probably have
to run for our lives. But they are all
lying down. Find yourself a couch!”

There was a stillness that
stretched. The heat blasted and
gnawed. Even the Twonks couldn’t
endure it for very long at a time.
Something would have to take place
-soon, unless —

“Juan! Maybe they’re what-you-
call-it, virgin birth. Maybe the sun
fertilizes them.”

“No. Not parthenogenetic. It has
not the evolutionary potentiality to
produce intelligent life — it does not
■give variant zygotes. Sunlight is nec-
essary but not sufficient, I think.
And I still cannot believe they are
true hermaphrodites. Somewhere
there must be males.”

Almost, Kingsbury jerked. It was
a tremendous effort to hold himself
rigid, to wait in the shimmering,
dazzling devil-dance of light as all
the natives were waiting. “I’ve got
it! The gods — they are the males!”

“That is clear enough,” said Na-
varro impatiently. “I deduced it
hours ago. But if the case is so sim-
ple, I am not hopeful. The males
can still claim to be a different,
superior order of life, as they indeed
already do. We shall need a more
fundamental discovery to upset this
male-worshiping cult.”

Navarro’s voice snapped off.
Flame stood in the doorway.

No . . . the tall lizard-like forms,
in burnished coppery scales,
wreathed in silvery vapor — they
glowed, walking dragons, but they
did not burn . . . they advanced,
through the doorway and into the
courtyard. Their beaks gaped, and
the small dark eyes held sun-sparks,
and the tails lashed their taloned
feet. More and more of them, stalk-
ing in, one to a Twonk, and ap-
proaching with hands held out.

The males of Mercury . . . Day-
side life, charged with the energy
from the sun which made new life
possible, sweating out pure quick-
silver to cool them so they wouldn’t
fry their mates . . . was it any won-
der they were thought divine?

But Judas! It wasn’t possible! Male
and female had to come from the
same race, evolving together — they
couldn’t have arisen separately, one
in the hell of Dayside and one in
the endless purgatorial dusk of Twi-
light. The same mothers had to bear
them; and yet, and yet, Twonk eggs
only brought forth Twonks —

Then —

The knowledge bit home as a
dragon neared Kingsbury. The male
was hesitating, the lean head wove
back and forth ... an alien smell?
A subtle wrongness of posture?

The Mohawk sat up and yelled.
The dragon spouted mercury vapor
and crouched. Teeth made to shear
through rock flashed in the open
mouth.

“Juan, I’ve got it! I know what
they are! Let’s get back!”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Navarro was on his feet, fumbling
at the belly of his disguise. Latches
clicked free, and he scrambled out
of it. The nearest dragon leaped.
Navarro’s gun bucked. The male
fell with a hole blown through him
... so much for the immortal gods,
the heavenly showmen. Kingsbury
was out of his own shell now. A
female lunged at him. He got her
around the waist and pitched her
into the mob. Whirling, he slugged
his way toward the door, Navarro
covering his back.

The dragons snapped at them but
didn’t dare attack. There was a mo-
ment of fury, then the humans were
out on the plaza. They began run-
ning.

“Now we’ve got to beat them back
to the ship,” panted Kingsbury.

‘-More than that,” said Navarro.
“We must reach safety before they
come near enough to call the hive
and have us intercepted. I wonder
if we can.”

“A man might try,” said Kings-
bury.

The forward port showed some
thousands of armed Mercurian fe-
males. They ringed in the ship, wait-
ing, too rational to batter with use-
less clubs at the hull and too angry
to depart. There were more of them
arriving every minute.

“I wonder — ” Antella peered out.
He spoke coolly, but his feathers
stood erect with tension. “I wonder
if they can do worse to us than they
have already done. We will starve iio

faster besieged in here than walking
freely around.”

“They can get to us if they want
to work at it,” said Kingsbury. “And
I think they do. They could rig up
some kind of battering ram — ”

Navarro lit his pipe and puffed
hard. “It is our task to persuade
them otherwise,” he said. “Do you
believe they will listen.?”

Kingsbury went over to the ship’s
radio and sat down and operated
the controls with nervous fingers.
“Let’s hope so. It’s our only chance.
Do you want to talk to ’em.?”

“Go ahead. You are better with
the English language than I. I will
perhaps put in an oar.”

Kingsbury switched on the speak-
er and brought bis lips to the micro-
phone. “Hello, out there,” he said.

His voice cut through the seething
of Mercurian tones. It was eldritch
how they snapped off all at once.
English, clear and grammatical and
subtly distorted, answered him:

“What do you wish to say? You
have violated the temple. The gods
order that you must die."

“The gods would say that,” re-
plied Kingsbury. “But they are not
gods at all. They want to get rid of
us because we can tell you the truth.
They’ve lied and cheated you for I
don’t know how many centuries.”

“Truth, lie, cheat. Those are words
we do not know.”

“Well . . . uh . . . truth is a cor-
rect statement, a statement of what is
real. A lie is a statement which is
not truth, but made on purpose,

LIFE CYCLE

knowing it to be false. Cheating is
. . . well . . . damn it, I wish we
had a dictionary along! The gods
have lied to you so you would do
what they wanted. That’s cheating.”

“We think we understand,” said
the toneless voice. “It is a new con-
cept to us, but a possible one. The
gods do not speak so we can hear
them. They—” conference, presum-
ably recalling what the first expedi-
tion had told about radio — “they
use a different band. They com-
municate with us by gestures only.
So are you implying that they are
not what they claim to be and have
made life unnecessarily difficult for
us ? ”

“That’s it, pal.” Kingsbury still
didn’t hke the Twonks much, but
he was grateful they were so quick
on the uptake. “Having seen what
goes on in the temple, we know
what these self-appointed gods are.
They’re nothing but the males of
your own species.”

“What does the word ‘male’ de-
note.^”

“Well — ” Kingsbury ground to a
halt. Precisely how did you explain
it in nickel words when Junior asked
where he came from? He gave Na-
varro a helpless look. The Basque
grinned, leaned over the itiicrophone,
and gave a simple account.

The female collectivity thought
about it for a while, standing in
burnished motionlessness, then said
with an unaccustomed slowness:
“That is logical. We have long ob-
served that certain of the animals

go through the same motions of
fertilization as we with the gods.
But whether you wish to call them
gods or males makes no difference.
They are still the great ones who
give life.”

“They don’t give any more life
than you do,” snapped Kingsbury.
“They need you just as much as you
need them. In fact . . . they are
yourselves!"

“That is an irrational statement.”
Was there a defensive overtone in
the voice? “Our eggs bring forth
only females, so it is reasonable to
suppose that the gods are born
directly of the sun. A Mercurian
hatches from an egg after the god-
male has given life. She grows up
and in her turn visits the godmales
and brings forth eggs. At last, grown
old, she goes to the sunlands and
dies. There is no missing period in
which she could become a godmale,”

“Oh, yeah ? What about after she’s
gone sunside?”

Mercurian language gabbled at
them.

Kingsbury spoke fast: “We went
out there ourselves and found the
shells of those you thought had
died. But the shells were empty!
You know you have muscles, nerves,
guts, organs. Those ought to remain
in a dried-out condition. But I re-
peat, the shells were empty!”

“Then . . . but we have only your
statement.”

“You can check up on it. We can
rebuild a spacesuit for one of you,
furnish enough protection from the

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

sun for you to go out there a while,
long enough to see.”

“But what happens? What is the
significance of the empty shells?”

“Isn’t it obvious, you dunder-
heads? You’re a kind of larval stage.
At the proper time, you go out into
the sun. Its radiation changes you.
You’re changed so much that all
memory of your past state disap-
pears— your whole bodies have to be
reconstructed, to live on Dayside.
But when the process is finished,
you break out of the shell . . . and
now you’re male.

“Yom don’t know that. The male
comes out as if newly born —
hatched, I mean. Probably his kind
meet him and help him and teach
him. The males discovered the truth
somehow . . . well, it was easy
enough for them, since they can
watch the whole life cycle. Instead
of helping you females, as nature
intended, they set themselves up as
gods and lived off you, taking more
than they gave. And when they
learned about us, they forbade you
to have dealings with us — because
they were afraid we’d learn the truth
and expose them.

“But they need you! All you have
to do is refuse to visit the temples
for a few sunrises. Then see how
fast they come to terms!”

“Lysistrata,” murmured Navarro.

For a time, then, the radio hissed
and crackled with the thinking of
many minds linked into one. Amelia
sat unmoving, Navarro fumbled
with his pipe, Kingsbury gnawed
his lips and drummed on the radio
panel.

Finally: “This is astonishing news.
We must investigate. You will pro-
vide one of us with a suit in which
to inspect Dayside.”

“Easy enough,” said Kingsbury.
His tone jittered. “And if you find
the shells really are empty, as you
will— what then?”

“We shall follow your advice. You
will be given admittance to your
supplies, and we will discuss ar-
rangements for the mining of those
ores which you desire.”

Navarro found himself uncon-
trollably shaking. “Saint Nicholas,
patron of wanderers,” he whispered,
“I will build you a shrine for this.”

“The males may make trouble,”
warned Antella.

“If their nature is as you claim,”
said the Twonk horde, “they will
not be difficult to control.”

Kingsbury, the American, won-
dered if he had planted the seeds of
another matriarchy. Underneath all
the rejoicing, he felt a vague sense of
guilt.

I’ve often referred to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine as our sister
publication. It’s now evident that the sistership is virtually Siamese:
we share much of the same bloodstream. Winners in EQMM’s re-
cently concluded Twelfth Annual Contest include Poul Anderson,
Robert Bloch, Miriam Allen dePord, G. C. Edmondson and Manly
Wade Wellman, along with a half dozen less frequent P&SP contribu-
tors; and the winner of the $1500 Pirst Prize was Avram Davidson.
In introducing Davidson’s fine The Necessity of His Condition
(EQMM, April, 1957), Queen writes, "He has the astonishing knack
of being able to write about any geographical background, and about
any culture, ancient or modern, alien or native — and always with the
most startling authenticity.” 1 concur wholeheartedly: Davidson’s
EQMM winner is about the ante helium South; his last P&SP story
was about Hanoverian England; and each, one would think, could
have been written only by an intensive specialist. Nor is Davidson’s
ability to get under the skin of a culture limited to the long-ago and
far-away; this new story, brief but sharply limned, could give an alien
anthropologist a valuable insight into the mores of prosperous middle-
class Southern California.

Summerland

by AVRAM DAVIDSON

Mary King said — and i’m sure it
was true — that she couldn’t remem-
ber a thing about the s&nce at Mrs.
Porteous’s. Of course no one tried to
refresh her memory. Mary is a large
woman, with a handsome, ruddy
face, and the sound of that heavy
body hitting the floor and the sight
of her face at that moment — it was
gray and loose-mouthed and flac-

cid— so unnerved me that I am
ashamed to say I just sat there,
numb. Others scurried around and
cried for water or thrust cushions
under her head or waved vials of
ammoniated lavender in front of
her, but I just sat frozen, looking
at her, looking at Mrs. Porteous loll-
ing back in the armchair, Charley
King’s voice still ringing in my ears.

and my heart thudding with shock.

I would not have thought, nor
would anyone else, at first impres-
sion, that the Kings were the s&nce
type. My natural tendency is to as-
sociate that sort of thing with wheat
germ and vegeburgers and complete
syndromes of psychosomatic illness-
es, but Charley and his wife were
beef-eaters ail the way and they
shone with health and cheer and
never reported a snifSe, Be exceed-
ingly wary of categories, I told my-
self; despise no man’s madness.
Their hearty goodwill, if it palled
upon me, was certainly better for
my mother than another neighbor’s
whining or gossip would have been.
The Kings, who were her best
friends, devoted to her about 500%
of the time I myself was willing to
give. For years I had lived away
from home, our interests and activi-
ties were too different, there seemed
little either of us could do when
long silences fell upon us as we sat
alone. It was much better to join
the Kings.

“Funny thing happened down at
the office today — ” Charley often be-
gan like that. Ordinarily this open-
ing would have shaken me into
thoughts of a quick escape. Some-
how, though, as Charley told it, his
fingers rippling the thick, iron-gray
hair, his ruddy face quivering not
to release a smile or laugh before
the point of the story was revealed
— somehow, it did seem funny when
Charley told it. To me, the Kings
were older people, but they were

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

younger than my mother, and I am
sure they helped keep her from
growing old too fast. It was worth
it to me to eat vast helpings of but-
ter-pecan ice cream when the Real
Me hungered and slavered for a
glass of beer with pretzel sticks on
the side.

If tarot cards, Rosicrucian litera-
ture, s&nces, and milder non-con-
tortionistic exercises made an incon-
gruous note in the middle<lass,
middle-aged atmosphere the Kings
trailed with them like “rays of lam-
bent dullness” — why, it was harm-
less. It was better to lap up pyramid-
ology than lunatic-fringe politics.
Rather let Mother join hands on the
ouija board than start cruising the
Great Circle of quack doctors to
find a cure for imaginary backaches.
So I ate baked alaska and discussed
the I Am and astral projection, and
said “Be still, my soul” to inner
yearnings for highballs and carnal
conversation. After ail, it was only
once a week. And I never saw any
signs that my mother took any of
it more seriously than the parchesi
game which followed the pistachio
or peanut-crunch.

I am an architect. Charley was In
The Real Estate Game. A good
chance, you might think, for one
hand to wash the other, but it hardly
ever happened that our commercial
paths crossed. Lanais, kidney-
shaped swimming pools, picture
windows, copper-hooded fireplaces,
hi-fi sets in the walls — that was my
sort of thing. “Income property” —

SUMMERLAND

that was Charley’s. And a nice in-
come it was, too. Much better than
mine.

How does that go? — Evil com-
munications corrupt good manners?
— Charley might have said some-
thing of that sort if I’d ever told
him what Ed Hokinson told me.
Hoke is on the planning commis-
sion, so what with this and that,
we see each other fairly often. Co-
incidence’s arm didn’t stretch too
long before Charley king’s name
came up between us. Idly talking, I
repeated to Hoke a typical Charlcy-
ism. Charley had been having ten-
ant trouble.

“Of course there are always what
you might call the Inescapable
Workings of Fate, which all of us
are subject to, just as we are to, oh,
say, the Law of Supply and De-
mand,” said Charley, getting out-
side some dessert. “But by and large
whatever troubles people of that
sort” — meaning the tenants — “think
they have, it’s due to their own im-
providence, for they won’t save, and
each week or month the rent comes
as a fresh surprise. And then you
have certain politicians stirring them
up and making them think they’re
badly off when really they’re just
the victims of Maya, or Illusion.”
Little flecks of whipped cream were
on his ruddy jowels. Mary nodded
solemnly, two hundred pounds of
well-fed, well-dressed, well-housed
approbation.

“Maya,” said Hoke. “That what
he calls it? Like to come with me

and see for yourself? / know Char-
ley King,” Hoke said. In the end
I did go. Interesting, in its own way,
what I saw, but not my kind of
thing at all. And the next day was
the day Charley died. He was in-
terred with much ceremony and ex-
pense in a fabulous City of the
Dead, which has been too well de-
scribed by British novelists for me
to try. Big, jolly, handsome, life-lov-
ing Mr. Charley King. In a way,
I missed him. And after that, of
course, Mary and my mother were
together even’ more. After that there
was even less of the Akashic Docu-
ments or Anthroposophism or Ve-
danta, and more and more of se-
ances.

"1 know I have no cause to
grieve,” Mary said. “1 know that
Charley is happy. I just want him
to tell me so. That’s not asking too
much, is it?”

How should I know? What is
“too much”? I never do any asking,
myself, or any answering for that
matter.

So off they went, my mother and
Mrs. Mary King, and — ^if I couldn’t
beg off — I. Mrs. Victory’s, Mrs. Rev-
erend Ella Maybelle Snyder’s, Ma-
dame Sophia’s, Mother Honeywell’s
— every spirit-trumpet in the city
must have been on time-and-a-half
those days. They got little-girl an-
gels and old-lady angels. They got
doctors, lawyers, Indian chiefs, and
young boy-babies — they must even
have gotten Radio Andorra — but
they didn’t get Charley. There were

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

slate-messages and automatic writ-
ings and ectoplasm enough to reach
from here to Punxatawney, P. A,
but if it reached to Charley he did-
n’t reach back. All the mediums
and all their customers had the same
line: There is no grief in Summer-
land, there is no pain in Summer-
land — Summerland being the choice
real estate development Upstairs, at
least in the Spiritualist hep-talk.
They all believed it, but somehow
they all wanted to be assured. And
after the seance, when all the spooks
had gone back to Summerland,
what a consumption of coffee, cup-
cakes, and cold cuts.

Some of the places were fancy,
you bought “subscription” for the
season’s performance and discussed
parapsychology over canapes and
sherry. Mrs. Porteous’ place, how-
ever, was right out of the 1920’s, red
velveteen por/eerr on wooden rings,
and all. I almost fancied I could feel
the ectoplasm when we came in,
but it was just a heavy condensation
of boiled cabbage steam and ham-
burger smoke.

Mrs. Porteous looked like a cari-
cature of herself — down-at-hem eve-
ning gown, gaudy but clumsy- cos-
metic job, huge rings on each fin-
ger, and, oh, that voice. Mrs. Porte-
ous was the phoniest-looking, phon-
iest-sounding, phoniest-aeftKg medi-
um I have ever come across. She
had a lady-in-waiting: sagging
cheeks, jet-black page-boy bob or
banp or whatever you call it, velvet
tunic, so on.

“Dear friends,” says the gentle-
woman, striking a Woolworth gong,
“might I have your attention please.
I shall now request that there be no
further smoking or talking whilst
the seance is going on. ’We guaran-
tee— nothing. We shall attempt — all.
If there is doubt — if there is discord
— the spirits may not come. For
there is no doubt, no discord, there
is no grief nor pain, in Summer-
land.” So on. Let us join our hands
... let us bow our heads ... I, of
course, peeked. The Duchess was
sitting on the starboard side of the
incense, next to Mrs. Porteous, who
was rolling her eyes and muttering.
Then Charley King screamed.

It was Mrs. Porteous’ mouth that
it came from, it was her chest that
heaved, but it was Charley King’s
voice — I know his voice, don’t you
think I know his voice? He
screamed. My mother’s hand jerked
away from mine.

“The fire! The fire! Oh, Mary,
how it burns, how — /"

Then Mary fell forward from her
seat, the lights went on, went off,
then on again, everyone scurried
around except me — I was frozen to
my seat — and Mrs. Porteous — she
lay back in her arm chair. Finally I
got to my feet and somehow we
managed to lift Mary onto a couch.
The color came back to her face
and she opened her eyes.

“That’s all right, dear,” my moth-
er said.

“Oh my goodness 1” said Mary.
“What happened? Did I faint? Isn’t

SUMMERLAND

that silly. No, no, let me get up;
we must start the s&nce.”

Someone tugged at my sleeve. It
was the Duchess.

“Who was that?” she asked, look-
ing at me shrewdly. “It was her
husband, wasn’t it? Oh-yes-it-twas!
He was burned to death, wasn’t he?
And he hasn’t yet freed himself from
his earthly ties so he can enter Sum-
merland. He must of been a skep-
tic.”

“He didn’t burn to death,” I said.
“He fell and broke his neck. And
he wasn’t a skeptic.”

(Hoke had said to me; “Of course
the board was rotten; the whole
house was rotten. All his property

was like that. It should have been
condemned years ago. No repairs,
a family in each room, and the rent
sky-higb — he must have been mak-
ing a fortune. You saw those rats,
didn’t you?” Hoke had asked. “Do
you know what the death rate is in
those buildings?”)

The Duchess shook her head. Her
face was puzzled.

“Then it couldn’t of been her hus-
band,” she said. “There is no pain,”
she pointed out reasonably, “in Sum-
merland.”

“No,” I said to her. “No, I’m sure
there isn’t. I know that.”

But I knew Charley King. And
I know his voice.

Coming Next Month

Very rare, in recent years, have been any Heinlein stories short of book-length
novels; but next month we’ll have the pleasure of presenting a new short novelet
by Robert A. Heinlein, The Menace from Earth — a charming story of young
love and a wonderfully detailed picture, in the inimitable Heinlein manner, of
civilization on the Moon. 'The same issue, on the stands around July 1, will fea-
ture a short novel. The Lineman, by Walter M. Miller, Jr., who proves himself
a very difiFerent writer from the creator of the canticles of St. Leibowitz in this
harshly realistic and bitterly violent story of work and sex on Mars. Other stories
(all new — no reprints) include a bittersweet fantasy of childhood by Mildred
Clingerman, the first F&SF appearance of Old Pro Rog Phillips, and a dream-
satire by mystery novelist and TV-writer Stuart Palmer.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION F.July.7 I

527 MadUon Avsnue, New York 22, N. Y. I

Plaaie enter my subscription at once, to start with next Issue, ■

I enclose Q $4 for 1 year G $7 for 2 years J

Name. .

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State.

^he hit er ate <^onster

by WILLIAM CHAPMAN WHITE

If science keeps on conquering
the unconquerable there just isn’t
going to be anything left for the hu-
man race to do. The news out of
England, sent round the world by
Reuters, shows to what ends science
will reach.

Scientists at Manchester Univer-
sity, so the story says, have built an
electronic computer into which a
scattered collection of words can be
fed. Deep down in the brain of the
machine the words are put together
and rearranged into complete sen-
tences which are then poured out in
legible form. The mere rumor of
the existence of such a machine
ought to strike terror into the hearts
of the writers of radio and television
serials, one-a-year novelists, and
even columnists.

With the story of the machine’s
invention comes a sample of the
machine’s work. One of the inven-
tors, obviously tongue-tied in the
presence of his beloved, decided to
feed into the machine a whole series
of endearing words, in the hope that
the machine would grunt and grum-
ble and give out with a love letter.
Sure enough, it did. Presumably
that inventor sent it off at once to
his girl.

Its text, verbatim, was: “Darling
sweetheart, you are my avid fellow
feeling. My affection curiously clings
to your passionate wish. My liking
yearns for your heart. You are my
wistful sympathy, my tender liking.
Yours beautifully.”

If the girl fell for that and married
the man she got what she deserved.
Without the machine handy, the
inventor is still tongue-tied. Break-
fast conversation in that newly wed
couple’s home must be odd at times.

“I certainly don’t understand you,
Cecil,” says the wife. “You used to
write me such beautiful things be-
fore we were married and now you
never say a word.”

Cecil just stares, wordless and
helpless.

“If you don’t want to show me
any avid fellow feeling any more,”
says the unhappy bride, “you might
at least show me some wistful sym-
pathy.”

In the meantime Cecil and his
friends, having solved the problem
of writing love letters, are now busily
working on a new machine that will
carry on the rest of the courtship
and let a man free for more impor-
tant things, like inventing more such
machines.

Miss Seahright, who usually scries into the future, this time casts her
sensitive gaze upon the past, to bring us a bittersweet and touching
fantasy of a Victorian wife who was offered an unexpected way out of
the fetters of conventional propriety.

£ithne

by IDRIS SEABRIGHT

When Eithne’s carrying a child
began to be noticeable, Herbert sent
her away from Corstophine, their
villa, to Wracksand, a little hamlet
on the North coast. He said he did
it because the air at Corstophine
was too heavy for a female in her
condition, and it was true, the air
at Corstophine was always dark
with smoke and sharp with sulphur
from the mills. But Eithne thought
he was sending her away because
he was ashamed of her.

She did not much mind. Her
maid was traveling with her, and
Herbert, parting from her at the
station, had put a generous number
of ten pound notes in her reticule.
Besides, though the obsessive grip
of his dark, shamefaced feeling for
her had begun to relax a little in
the last month, she was still easier
away from him. She was supposed
to return to Corstophine for her
confinement. Herbert had engaged
a medical man in the neighborhood
to attend her. Dr. Trevin was a

modern practitioner, well thought-
of, up-to-date in his methods. He,^
would give her chloroform wheo"
her pains got bad. The Queen had
had chloroform in 1853 when Prince
Leopold was born.

When Eithne and her companion
got to Wracksand, there turned out
to be no suitable place for Dawkins,
the maid, to stay. Eithne bore her
complaints patiently for perhaps fif-
teen minutes. Then — her temper was
uncertain these days; sometimes she
was happy at her condition, some-
times fiercely resentful of it — she
told the woman abruptly to go back
to Corstophine. Eithne could get
along quite well with nobody but
Mrs. Neville, her landlady, to attend
her. She had liked Mrs. Neville on
sight.

Dawkins left, sulky and hysterical
When Eithne had had time to rest a
little from her journey, Mrs, Neville
suggested ^that she might like to
walk down to the sea and sit in the
sun. Though it was October, it was

a fine warm day, and a litde exercise
was good for a woman who was
carrying.

Eithne was pleased. She got Mat-
thew Arnold’s latest volume of
poems from her valise — she liked
poetry, though Herbert didn’t — and
started toward the water. The coast
at Wracksand was rocky, but Mrs.
Neville’s directions had been care-
ful. Eithne had no difficulty in find-
ing the little sandy beach, enclosed
between two jutting spits of rock.

The sun was warm*. Eithne did
not open her book. She sat with her
hands loosely about her knees, think-
ing languidly of Herbert . . . Cor-
stophine . . . Dawkins . . . Her-
bert again. Herbert talked so much
of duty. It was, she supposed, her
duty to have the baby. At any rate,
she was having it.

How warm the sun was! Sudden-
ly Eithne felt like a prisoner within
the heavy black serge of her dress.
She stood up. Mrs. Neville had said
that nobody ever came to the beach,
not even fishermen. With eager,
guilty fingers Eithne began to un-
button the buttons — the dozens of
buttons — on her bodice. She pulled
the dress off over her shoulders,
thinking: how heavy, heavier even
than the child I’m carrying. And
her underclothing, stiff with hand-
made lace and much embroidery,
was heavy too.

She stood naked at last. She
looked about herself anxiously, but,
no, nobody ever came here. The
waves that broke on the little beach

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

were white with foam, but the water
itself was a tender dark gray-blue.
Her eyes half-shut against the
shameful sight of her own body, she
waded hesitantly out until she stood
in water over her knees.

She had never been in the sea be-
fore without a bathing-dress. The
water was cold, but there was some-
thing delicious in its very iciness.
Hastily she knelt, and sluiced the
next waves over her shoulders and
her breasts. Oh! Oh! How cold, how
sweet! Then she hurried back to the
pile of clothing she had left on the
sand.

She had nothing to dry on. The
air dried her, and left a prickle of
salt on her skin. She got into her
clothing again, finding that she re-
sented its weight less now that she
had been out of it.

She was almost done with the but-
tons on the heavy black bodice when
she saw, far out beyond the jutting
rocks, forty yards or so from the
shore, a cluster of bobbing heads.
For a moment shame froze her.
Then she laughed. Seals, only seals,
ft didn’t matter if they had been
watching her.

When she got back to the cottage
Mrs. Neville was preparing a meal,
something between an early supper
and a late tea. “Was it pleasant by
the water, ma’am?’’ she asked as she
scalded out the teapot.

“Very pleasant,’’ Eithne answered.
“The sun was nicely warm. Oh, and
I saw some seals.”

“Seals!” Mrs. Neville set the

EITHNE

brown-glazed teapot down with a
thump. “Fancy that! Excuse me for
asking, ma’am, but are you quite
sure? There haven’t been seals at
Wracksand since my grandmother’s
day, thirty or forty years ago.”

“Quite sure,” Eithne answered. “I
saw their heads, you know. Round,
dark heads.”

“Yes. . . . 'Well, I’m glad to hear
they are back. The people of the sea
— that’s what folk in these parts call
them, ma’am — are lucky. Fancy their
coming back, after all these years!”

“I suppose it was the seal fishers
drove them away?” Eithne asked,
sinking down in the chair Mrs. Ne-
ville had pulled out for her.

“So some say. My grandmother al-
ways’ held it was the wickedness of
folk nowadays that made them leave.
She said it wasn’t natural to dig the
earth for iron and coal. And oh, she
thought it dreadful to make the lit-
tle ones work so hard beside the
looms in the cruel cotton factories.
The dogs, she used to say, were bet-
ter off than many an English child.”

“That’s progress,” Eithne said,
echoing Herbert. “We have to have
progress.”

“Progress!” Mrs, Neville’s dark
eyes flashed. “Nay, but it’s wicked-
ness! . . . Excuse me, ma’am. Eat
your supper, do. There’s a fresh
hearth-baked loaf for you, and sweet
butter from Mrs. May’s churning. A
bit of lettuce from the garden. And
I boiled two of the speckled eggs.
They’re the tasty ones.”

Eithne buttered a slice of the

crumbly warm bread and began to
pour herself a cup of tea. “Put lots of
milk to your tea, ma’am,” Mrs. Ne-
ville advised her. “Milk’s the staff of
life to a childing woman.”

When she undressed for bed that
night, Eithne touched her tongue to
her wrist. She laughed to find she
could still taste salt on it.

The weather held on fine, and
Eithne went every day to the little
beach. She took her lunch with her
— eggs or cheese, slices of brown
loaf, and milk in a flask — in a little
wicker basket, and stayed until the
sun was low and it began to grow
chill. She sat with her hands in her
lap, not thinking, watching the
waves eternally washing against the
sand. She often saw the heads of
seals, sometimes far out, sometimes
so near that she could have tossed a
pebble out to them.

She wrote to Herbert weekly, and
got letters as often from him. Busi-
ness was good, he wrote, he missed
her. There had been an accident at
the mills; two workingmen had
been badly scalded when one of the
vats that held the molten steel broke.
Nothing serious. The firm had two
new contracts. He would send Daw-
kins to fetch her back to Corstophine
at the middle of January. He had
told the maid to use her time in
making dresses for Eithne’s child.

Eithne crumpled up the letters
from Herbert as soon as she read
them, and tossed them in the fire-
place. She disliked thinking about

Corstophine, Herbert, the mills. She
was impatient to get back to the
beach and forget them.

She longed to undress again and
let the wonderful cold sea water ca-
ress her. No, it might be bad for the
child. But the nagging backache
that had troubled her so at Cor-
stophine had left her. Her body felt
relaxed and sound.

Toward the end of November the
long spell of fine weather broke. It
rained hard; day after day there was
driving wind or choking fog. Eithne
had to stay in the house by the fire.
She tried crocheting, but she had
never cared for fancy work. She was
always laying the hook down and
yawning. She preferred to help Mrs.
Neville with the household tasks, or
to listen to the older woman talk.

At first Mrs. Neville talked of the
people of the village: of Parson, who
was a good man, and so learned that
he could read books in those old
hard languages; of Mrs. May, who
kept two cows and had been mid-
wife to Mrs. Neville when she had
had her own children; of Billy At-
kins, who had run away to sea, and
of Norah Pollock, who had run off
to London and come to no good
end, and of a host of others who had
lived in the village, fished or farmed
there, and died where they had been
born.

Then, when she grew more at ease
with Eithne, she began to tell her the
stories her own mother had told her.
Fairy stories, Eithne supposed one
would call them. She told of brown-

FANTASY AND SCIENCB FICTION

ies and sea fairies, of the Good
Neighbors, who Eithne gathered
were land spirits, of hags and de-
mons, of the people of the sea, and
of the paths that lead to fairyland.
Eithne listened with drowsy pleas-
ure. Sometimes Mrs. Neville would
interrupt herself to say with a laugh
that Parson liked her to tell the old
stories, and she supposed she had
got into the way of telling them to
the quality.

At last, after nearly three weeks of
bad weather, the sky cleared. Mrs.
Neville bundled Eithne up in layer
on layer of woolen shawls, and sent
her out to take the air. Eithne
walked down to the beach.

The sun’s rays were weak, but he
rode in a sky of pale, unclouded
blue. The water today was choppy,
vexed by cross-currents, but from ev-
ery broken pale blue surface there
was reflected a dazzle of light.
Eithne sat down in the sun, out of
the wind. The light on the water
hurt her eyes. She dozed.

She woke with a start. What had
she been dreaming? Some nonsense,
out of the stories Mrs. Neville had
been telling her — something about
the two paths that human beings
took, the hard road to heaven and
the broad pleasant road to hell, and
the third path, the pretty winding
path that leads to fairyland.

Nonsense. But suppose it were
true. Suppose that, besides the two
known ways, there were a tliird one.
the road to fairyland? Nonsense.
Nonsense. There was only one path

EITHNE

to be taken, the path of duty — ^Her-
bert spoke so much of duty — and
Eithne’s next duty was returning to
Corstophine to have her child.

Eithne felt a throb of hatred to-
ward Corstophine. The rooms were
too large, always cold, dank with the
raw smell of new 'plaster. The serv-
ants were obsequious and attentive,
but they had spiteful eyes. Even the
garden, that might have given her
pleasure, had been frozen by topiary
work and formal parterres into a
rigid, distasteful lesson in geometry.
And Dr. Trevin — how could she ex-
pose her travailing body to his cold
scrutiny } He was a formal, dry little
man with sharp manners. For all his
modernity and his neat pince-nez,
she disliked him and was afraid of
him.

Oh, but she had to. It was her
duty. — Why shouldn’t she stay in
Wracksand and have her baby here?

Eithne knotted her fingers togeth-
er. She felt giddy with excitement.
Was it really so foolish? Mrs. May
was a clever midwife; Mrs. Neville
said that she had saved the life of a
woman in Pawlish that two doctors
had given up. And Mrs. Neville her-
self was so kind. She treated Eithne
like a daughter. Eithne felt safe and
happy with her. It would be easy to
have a baby here.

Herbert would be furious. He was
a choleric man; Eithne had seen
him, in moments of exasperation,
actually gnashing his teeth. But
though he might send Dawkins to
fetch her back to Corstophine, Daw-

kins was only a servant. Dawkins
could not compel her. And Herbert
himself was much too fond of his
dignity to make himself ridiculous
by attempting to coerce a woman in
the last stages of pregnancy. There
were some advantages in being a
woman, after all. No. She would
stay here. She would write to Her-
bert tonight.

When she got back to the cottage,
she told Mrs. Neville what she had
decided. “I’m so glad,’’ the older
woman said. Her eyes glowed. “Just
fancy, a baby in the house again! It
will be like old times.

“I’m sure you won’t regret it, my
dear. There never was a better mid-
wife than Mrs. May. Folk in the vil-
lage say she’s kin to the Good
Neighbors, she’s so wise. And I can
help you get things ready for the lit-
tle one. I.’ve still got baby clothes put
away in my old dresser. After you
drink your tea, we’ll have a look.”

Herbert’s answer, when it came,
was even angrier than Eithne had
feared. She was, he wrote, making
him look like a fool. And she was a
fool herself, to trust herself to igno-
rant old women at such a dangerous
moment of her life. Had she no con-
ception of the trouble he had gone
to on her account? He had put him-
self out to make suitable arrange-
ments for her; for a momentary
whim, a wild, unregulated fancy, she
was willing to upset everything. She
had never had the proper views of
what duty in a wife meant. And so
on for three pages.

His letter, however, ended on a
note o£ acquiescence, as Eithne had
foreseen it would. She fancied he
might be secretly relieved at being
spared the discomfort and inconven-
ience of having her confined at Cor-
stophinc. She only hoped he would
not make her pay for the affront to
his dignity when she did go back.

Eithne’s child was due at the
end of January. Just before bedtime
on the night of the twenty-eighth
she called Mrs. Neville, saying she
thought her pains had begun.

Mrs. Neville went for Mrs. May
at once. Eithne, left alone in the lit-
tle cottage with only the oil lamp
for company, gave way to a moment
of terrible fear. Herbert was right,
she was a fool. Women died in child-
bed, even when they had good doc-
tors. She had put her life into the
hands of two ignorant old women.
Mrs. Neville could not even read.
What a fool she had been! She was
almost groaning with fear when
Mrs. Neville and the midwife came
back.

Mrs. May gave her a long, search-
ing look. Then she smiled. “Take off
your things, my dear,” she said. “We
want to wash you. And then, if you
have a short, loose nightdress, put it
on. Better no nightdress at all, if
you’re warm enough.”

Clumsily Eithne stood up. She was
shaking with fear. A contraction
bent her almost double. Mrs. May
put her arms around her shoulders
to support her.

“Nay, you’re doing it wrong,” she

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

said. “You mustn’t try to help it yet,
my dear. And don’t be afraid. It’s
natural. You must just open to it,
like a door.”

Eithne was undressed and washed.
Mrs. May sat beside her, holding her
hand and talking quietly. Gradu-
ally Eithne’s fear abated. Herbert
had been wrong, after all, and
she right. Mrs. May might be igno-
rant of more than her ABC’s. But
she was wise.

About ten o’clock Mrs. May said,
“Draw a deep breath and hold it,
my dear. There. Do you feel like
bearing down a bit?”

Eithne tried. “Why, that’s better,”
she said, surprised.

“Yes, now you can help.” Mrs.
May smiled. “And scream if you’ve
a mind to, dear. Some women do.”

The contractions were coming
faster. Eithne shook her head. She
couldn’t spare breath to tell Mrs.
May the surprising thing she had
just discovered. But the truth was
that it was not really pain.

The baby was born a little after
one o’clock. Eithne, looking up into
Mrs. May’s face, saw a strange ex-
pression, like wind blowing over
water, pass across it. “Is it all right?”
she asked anxiously.

“Yes. It’s a girl. A perfect, beauti-
ful little girl.”

The afterbirth had come. Eithne
held out her tired arms. “Give her
to me,” she said.

She was astonished at how much
she enjoyed motherhood. The baby’s

EITHNE

tininess and physical perfection en-
chanted her. she never wanted to
let the little thing out of her arms.
She had been afraid she would not
be able to suckle her daughter, since
her breasts were small, but Mrs. Ne-
ville encouraged her, saying size
went for naught in a matter like
that. Eithne tried, and was filled
with delicious pride when the baby
throve. The only cloud on her hap-
piness was the knowledge that she
would soon have to return to Cor-
stophine.

She had written to Herbert a few
days after her confinement, telling
him the news. He waited almost two
weeks to answer, and his letter,
when it came, was short and cold,
expressing regret for the child’s sex.
He said nothing about Eithne’s re-
turning to the villa. Yet Eithne
knew that she would have to return.

The weather stayed bad until early
in March. Then it cleared. There
was a feel of spring in the air. Eithne
went down to the beach with the
baby.

she had her lunch and then, since
little Una seemed hungry, gave her
the breast. She leaned against a rock,
drowsy with the relaxation of suck-
ling, thinking of the story Mrs. Ne-
ville had told her last night — of how
some seals are nothing but seals,
and how others are the true People
of the Sea, powerful beings who can
doff their furry skins at will and go
among land people in the human
shape. Their number is always the
same, and if one of them dies his

skin must be given to another. The
seals are their loved flocks, and they
care for them tenderly.

The baby sank back from the
breast, satisfied. Eithne buttoned up
her bodice. She looked out over the
water. There were no seals at all to-
day. Wait, though. Far out, almost
farther than she could see, there was
one head.

There was a crunch of footsteps
over the sand. Eithne turned, star-
tled. A man was coming toward her
around one of the points of rock.

He wore corduroy trousers and a
jersey, and there was a fishnet over
his shoulders. He must be a fisher,
though Eithne, who thought she
knew every face in the village by
now, didn’t recognize him.

“Good day, missis,’’ he said when
he got nearer.

“Good day,” Eithne replied se-
dately. She wasn’t alarmed, though
Mrs. Neville had said nobody ever
came to the beach. He had a gentle
look.

When he got up to them, the baby
murmured and crowed. He smiled.
“So you’ve a little one!” he said, as if
pleased. “Missis, could I have a look
at her?”

Eithne frowned a little. There was
a strong, sharp smell of the sea about
him. But she was so proud of her
baby, she couldn’t resist the tempta-
tion. “Yes, if you like,” she said.

He sank down beside them on his
heels in the sand. Very gently he put
out a finger and touched the baby’s
flushed cheek. Her blue eyes opened

at the contact. She began to gurgle
and smile.

“A beautiful baby,” he said. He
was looking at little Una intently.
“Yes, missis, a beautiful child.”

“Thank you,” Eithne answered.
She was hoping he would not ask to
hold the baby. She did not want to
entrust her child to a strange man.

He got to his feet. “I am glad you
let me see her,” he said. “Good day,
missis.” He walked off around the
other point of rock.

Eithne gazed after him. She knew
she had never seen him before, and
yet she was troubled by a haunting
sense of familiarity in his bearing.
After a moment she placed it. It was
Mrs. May he resembled. He looked
enough like her to be, not her broth-
er, but her cousin. Perhaps he was.
In a small village, it was likely
enough.

Three days later Herbert, quite
unexpectedly, came to Wracksand.

Eithne was just finishing her
breakfast when he knocked at the
cottage door. When she saw who it
was, she felt the blood leaving her
face. Had he come to take her . . .
home, back to Corstophine.'*

He embraced her, saying, “Good
morning, my dear,” and then looked
around the little cottage disparag-
ingly. “I wish to talk to you,” he
said. “Is there not some spot where
we can be by ourselves?”

Mrs. Neville was peering at them.
Eithne was loath to take him to the
little beach, where she had spent so
many peaceful hours, but she knew

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

of nowhere else. She picked up little
Una and unwillingly led him down
to the shore.

They sat down in the sand. He
fumbled in his pocket and brought
out a book. “It is a gift I purchased
for you,” he said.

Eithne unwrapped the parcel. It
was a book of poetry, the same book
of Matthew Arnold’s, in fact, that
she already had. Still, he had meant
it kindly. “Thank you, Herbert,” she
said.

“Yes . . . When I saw it, I
thought of you.” He turned over the
pages. When he came to “Dover
Beach” he began to read the poem
aloud haltingly. . Ah, love, let
us be true /To one anotherl’ " he
read. “ ‘For the world, which seems/
To lie before us li\e a land of
dreams, /So various, so beautiful, so
new,/Hath really neither joy, nor
love, nor light, /Nor certitude . .

He closed the book. Eithne waited.
“I am beginning to think,” he said
slowly, “that I have not given
enough . . . heed to love. There are
other things in life besides duty.
Yes.”

Eithne listened in cold surprise.
She had been gone from Corstophine
a long time — ^more than five months,
in fact. Was Herbert trying to tell
her that he had become interested in
another woman? Or was this but the
prelude to more of the dark, obses-
sive desire with which he had al-
ways regarded her person ?

What did it matter? What did she
care? Now that she was face to face

IITHNE

with him again, she realized that the
spark of feeling she had had toward
him at the time of their marriage
had died utterly. She was sorry. He
had brought her the poetry book.
But he was less to her than the seals
out yonder in the water were.

The baby stirred and woke. She
gave a hungry wail. Eithne undid
her dress and began to nurse her.

Herbert looked on. His lips had
parted and a shine had come into his
eyes. Eithne, meeting his glance, felt
the blood rising hotly in her cheeks.
No. No. She would not. But he was
her husband. In the end, she would.

When the feeding was finished, he
said, “You spoil the child. Must you
put her to the breast the moment she
cries? Even a baby must learn to
recognize duty and discipline.”

“She was hungry,” Eithne defend-
ed feebly.

“She can learn to wait.” He
cleared his throat. “There is another
thing. She must be baptized. I have
always thought, Eithne, that perhaps
your own lack of proper awareness
of a wife’s duties comes from your
not having been baptized until so
late in life. I have already selected
her godparents. And I have chosen
her name too. She will be called
Mary Gertrude.”

"I call her Una,” Eithne said sul-
lenly.

“It is not a suitable name. — Eithne,
you must return to Corstophinc.”

Eithne’s eyes moved. “I ... I am
not yet well enough.”

“Perhaps. But I have consulted Dr.

Trevin. He informs me that you will
be quite well enough to resume your
duties at the end of another week.”

What did he know about it?
Eithne thought passionately. Duties!
Duties! And Herbert’s cold, abrupt
lust in the dark. He talked of love.
How she hated . . . But when he
got up from the beach with an air of
finality, brushing the sand from his
knees, she rose obediently and fol-
lowed him.

She told her landlady she would
be leaving on Wednesday week. Mrs.
Neville nodded, but said nothing.
Eithne was grateful that she made
no comment. She couldn’t have
borne to talk about her going back.

For the next few days Eithne rose
early and went down to the beach as
soon as she had eaten. She sat all day
looking out expectantly over the wa-
ter. She seemed to be waiting for
something — she didn’t know what —
that became more unlikely with the
passing of every hour. Sometimes
she would become conscious of how
tensely she was waiting, and force
herself to relax. But always in the
next moment she would be sitting
‘upright again, looking out eagerly at
the seals’ heads and the light on the
waves.

Except for her tense waiting, she
felt perfectly calm. Now that her re-
turn to Corstophinc was so near, it
aroused no emotion in her.

Tuesday came. Dawkins would be
at Wracksand tomorrow. Eithne
went to the beach early, but about

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

three in the afternoon she felt a sud-
den impatience, She would wait no
longer. It was silly to wait when she
didn’t even know what she was
waiting for.

She packed the things back in the
lunch basket and picked up her baby.
Una — Mary Gertrude — gave a sud-
den wail. Her small face was puck-
ered with rage. She had been fretful
and fractious, crying at everything,
for the last few days, though she
had been such a good baby before.

Eithne sat down again and tried
to comfort her. She was still rocking
the child and singing when she
heard a step on the sand.

It was the fisherman. He was car-
rying something dark, that looked
like fur, over his shoulders. The net
he had carried before was gone.

Eithne got to her feet. The baby
had hushed its crying. She said, “It
was you I was waiting for. But I
didn’t think you’d come.”

“Oh, yes. You were right, you see,
when you thought there was another
path.”

“Besides the two human ones?
What’s it like, underwave?”

“Cool, green and sliding,” he an-
swered her with a smile. “Better
than words.”

“Better than Mrs. Neville told
me?”

“Yes, better than her words.”

She let out a long breath. Little
Una stirred. “I can’t leave my baby,”
Eithne said.

“Give her to me. Mrs. May said
she had the signs.”

He took the child from Eithnc’s
arms and walked out into the water
with her. Eithne, looking on, felt a
moment of the same terrible fear she
had experienced on the Baby’s birth-
night. Una would drown, she had
been mad to trust her to a stranger,
she— Then her mind steadied and
she knew, as she had known on the
night of her confinement, that it was
all right. When the fisherman came
back to her, she was sitting quietly
in the sand.

He gave her the baby and sat
down beside her. Salt water was
dripping from little Una’s clothes
and hair. But her cheeks were pink,
and when Eithne cuddled her to her,
she gave a crow of delight,

“She can live underwave, then,
and be happy,” Eithne said.

“Live, and be very happy,” he an-
swered in his deep, gentle voice.

The tide was coming in. Eithne
looked slantwise at the fisherman.
She scooped up a handful of sand
and let it trickle through her fingers.
Now that so much was opening be-
fore her, she wanted to delay, to pro-
long anticipation on the very edge of
bliss. But at last she got to her feet.
“I ... we ... I am ready now.
We’ll come with you,” she said. She
began to fumble with the buttons of
her dress.

He had risen too and stood facing
her. “Eithne — poor Eithne — don’t
you understand? You have to
choose. You cannot both go. There
is only one skin.”

She stared at him. She felt a sense

EITHNE

of ruin so complete that it seemed to
her the beach was heaving under her
feet. Her mind was a kaleidoscope
of ideas. Herbert — ^her duties — Cor-
stophine — the baby’s christening —
discipline — the two paths. Then she
held the child out to him. She knew
she would never be able to do it if
she delayed another moment. “Take
her,” she said.

“Goodby, Eithne,” he said gently.
“She will be happy underwave.” For
the second time he walked out into
the sea with Eithne’s child.

When the water closed over his
head Eithne realized what she had
done. She ran wildly out, waist-deep,
shoulder-deep, pushing against the
water’s increasing resistance. She
shrieked Una’s name over and over.

There was no answer. A little
wave bobbed lightly into her open
mouth. Far out on the water, just at
the edge of the horizon, there was a
black dot that might have been a
seal’s head.

She ran back to the village. Sob-
bing, exhausted, her hair trailing
over her shoulders, she told them
her story. She had fallen asleep, the
tide had come in, when she woke
the baby had been gone. Mrs. Ne-
ville held her close and tried to com-
fort her.

She went on weeping.

She wept when she gave her evi-
dence at the inquest, she wept when
Herbert reviled her. (He would get
a separation, he said, she was no bet-
ter than a murderess, he would live
no longer with a female who was so
irresponsible.) She wept until her
eyes were almost swollen shut with
weeping.

But later, when her tear-blinded
eyes met Mrs. May’s wise ones, she
realized that under her bitter grief
there was a spark of wmething bet-
ter. She had, after all, been brave
enough to choose rightly. It was
Eithne, not Una, she was weeping
for.

In this age of tranquilizers, Mrs. Emsbwiller offers a short and grisly
tale of the perils of tranquil optimism.

You'll Feel "Fetter . . .

by CAROL EMSHWILLER

The Grind y perched on the win-
dow sill and looked out at the rain
pouring down. It cocked its head,
bird-hke, grinned, and then looked
back at the figure stretched out like
a corpse on the bed.

“Nice day,” it said. “Beautiful day.
It’s raining, but that makes the little
flowers grow. Besides, I like rain.”

The shape on the bed rolled over
and groaned.

“Seven o’clock,” the Grindy said.
“Nice time of day, seven.” It half-
flew, half-jumped down to the bed-
side table. “You’ll feel better, you
know, once you get up.”

“Shut up.” Linno pulled at his
twisted tunic, and half-opened red-
rimmed eyes. Something bad, some-
thing very bad had happened. He
felt it in his stomach, a hard, hot,
indigestible knot, the size of an
apple.

He squinted at the clock. It was
only seven, early for him. Yesterday
he had got up at seven too. Yester-
day, he thought, yesterday and
something bad. Then he re-

membered, closed his eyes and
groaned again.

“You were supposed to help,” he
told the Grindy.

“I am helping. Everything’s go-
ing to be just fine. You’ll see. It
takes a little time, that’s all. You
mustn’t be impatient.”

“It’s too late,” Linno slid his legs
over the side of the bed and sat up.
“Damn fool Grindy, nobody nee^
you any more. Why don’t you take
off? It’s over. It’s been done.”

“I’m what the Doctor ordered,”
the Grindy said. “I’m here to help
you. You can tell me all about it,
you know. I won’t tell a soul. I
couldn’t even if I wanted to. Why
don’t you just relax and tell me all
about it? You’ll feel better.”

Linno rose in an unsteady arc,
his head hanging forward, his
shoulders humped up, feet wide to
steady him. He grunted a short
syllable of a laugh. “You saw the
whole thing, the whole bloody
thing,” he said.

He limped across the room and

you’ll feel better . . .

opened a cupboard door to reveal
the kitchen unit, an ancient stove
with food burned black on its sur-
face, a small freezer unit under it,
a deep sink to one side with dirty
dishes in it.

He turned to the coffeepot,
opened the lid and stared inside at
the inch of coffee left in the bottom.

Then he turned the stove on un-
der it, went back and sat on the bed.

“Lousy weather,” he muttered.
“Damn lousy weather.”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,”
the Grindy said cheerfully and
grinned.

“That’s what you always say, no
matter what it is. Even about that
other you say, ‘It’s not as bad as
all that.’ ”

“Of course it isn’t so bad,” the
Grindy said. “Look on the brighter
side as I do.”

“What brighter side is that.^”

“I’m sure you can find it for your-
self if you try. Just try, really try,
and you’ll see. I don’t have to tell
you.”

Linno got up again and went to
get the boiling coffee. He poured
it into a cup, sipped at it noisily,
burning his lips and tongue.

Burning, burning was what he
deserved, he thought. Only the
Grindy deserved it too. It was the
Grindy that woke him up at seven
yesterday and gave him a chance to
prepare and get there on time.

Of course he had told it to do it
the night before. “Wake me up at
seven, Grindy,” he had said. “Wake

me up in time to get to her when
she’s alone. I’ll show her she can’t
play games with me,” and the fool
Grindy had done it. It had made
possible just what it was supposed
to help prevent.

He sipped again and then he put
the half empty cup down in the
sink on top of the other dirty dishes.

“How long are you going to stay
around.?” He went back to the bed
and lay down again on his back.
“Your job’s over. You did just fine.
Now I wish to god you’d leave me
alone.”

“You didn’t go to see Dr, Mor-
ris yesterday. You went to see that
girl instead.” The Grindy flew up to
the ceiling and perched there, upside
down. “Dr. Morris said I would do
you good for awhile, make you feel
better, and that’s what I’m doing.
Anyway, I can’t leave till Dr. Morris
tells me to. You know that. Besides,
am I so bad, really.?”

“God.” Linno shut his eyes, “You
were supposed to help and all you
did was flutter around and say,
‘That’s fine.’ ”

“You must remember,” the
Grindy said, “that most things turn
out all right in the end. All you have
to do is wait a bit. The rain goes
away; the sun comes; that’s the way
life is. Things arc never as bad as
they seem in the dark moments. We
all have our periods of self-doubt
and despair. It’s perfectly natural.
But you must reaUze that you’ll feel
better soon.”

“I did that thing yesterday. I did

it but of course I’ll feel better about
it soon. Things are not so bad.
I'hey’re just fine, in fact. Just fine.”

“That’s better.” The Grindy
walked down the side of the wall to
the dresser and perched on the edge
of it. “I’m glad to hear you say it
that way. We know, you and I, that
you’re not a bad sort, really, and
whatever you do, it’s never as bad as
it seems to you in these low times.”

“You’re talking about murder,”
Linno said, “and blood, blood and
meat, like in a butcher shop.” His
eyes were slits. “I can’t get it out of
my mind.”

The Grindy hopped down to the
bedside table. “Tell me about it,” it
said. “It’ll do you good. Why don’t
you just tell me all about it.” Its
voice was soothing, hypnotic.

“I didn’t really want to do it.” Lin-
no’s face looked blueish against the
white sheets. “Or perhaps I did then,
only now I don’t. It’s funny, that
first part . . . how I killed her . . .
I don’t even remember. It’s after-
wards I can’t forget, but there was
no other way to get rid of the body.
No other way but to cut it up into
hams and hocks and shoulder roasts,
wrap it up, and take it out in the

“You did all right.”

“What.'”’ Linno raised himself on
his elbow and stared at the Grindy.
“What did you say.?”

“You did fine. Of course, as you
say, it was the only way. There was
nothing else to do, so you did the
right thing. You sec that too. It was

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

fine and everything is turning out
for the best, like I said it would.”

Linno sat up and leaned his face
close to the Grindy. “I killed her,” he
said, and banged his fist down inches
from the bird-like creature. The
Grindy jumped to the wall above the
table.

“Now don’t disparage yourself,” it
said. “You did the right thing. You
admit that. You mustn’t tear your-
self apart like this. Of course we all
do it sometimes, it’s natural, but you
must remember that basiaally you’re
a nice person. Wouldn’t you say
that? Think about it now, sincerely,
and don’t be influenced by your
mood.”

“Nice! Damn nice!” Linno stood
up and stretched a hand toward the
Grindy, but it trotted higher, to the
edge of the ceiling.

“I think you really ought to see
Dr. Morris,” it said. “I’m sure he
missed you yesterday. Don’t you
think now would be a good time to
go? He’ll make you feel better
about everything.”

“Yes, he’ll make me feci just fine
. . . about everything.” Linno stood
on a chair and leaped for the Grindy
and then fell to the floor on his
knees. He got up, looking in each
corner of the ceiling for the Grindy.
“You were supposed to make me
feel better before it happened. Why
didn’t you? Why? Why?”

“Shout if you want to,” the Grindy
said from the top of the closet door,
“Get it off your chest, that’s the
thing to do.”

you’ll feel better . . .

Linno sat down on the floor and
leaned his back against the bed. “Get
it off your chest and forget it,” he
muttered. “Forget the whole affair.”

His feet stretched limply in front of
him, his hands lay palms up.

The Grindy jumped to the floor.

Linno kept his eyes on a spot just in
front of him.

“I’ve told you,” the Grindy said.

“All we have to do is wait a bit. The
rain will stop, the mood will go, and
you’ll feel better. Everything’s going
to come out all right.” The Grindy
hopped closer and Linno turned his
legs sideways under him.

“The little blow-off did you good,

I think.” The Grindy cocked its
head and grinned. It stepped for-
ward five small steps into the spot
where Linno was staring.

Linno pounced then. There was a

Look for the July issue of

F&SF’s new sister magazine, now on sale

This month’s features:

JAMES E. GUNN’S "Not So Great an Enemy” — a tale of love and death
in a world of the future — a world where money bought eternal life, and
poverty meant slow, terrible death. . . .

LESTER DEL REY’s "Seat of Judgment” — once every hundred years a
living goddess was born to the trolls of Sayon — a goddess almost too human
... too desirable. ...

TOM GOD’WIN’s "Aces Loaded” — Bull thought the redhead was on his
side against the gambling combine until he realized that her needle gun
was aimed at him. . . .

Plus stories by H. Beam Piper, C. M. Kornbluth, Paul Janvier and Tom
Godwin — and an exciting new book column by Theodore Sturgeon.

flurry of hands and wings and the
boing of a broken spring.

“Awk,” screamed the Grindy, Just
once.

Linno opened his hands and
dropped the crushed thing on the
floor, a mixture of cogs and bone,
wires and blood. He picked up the
tag from the leg, fallen to one side.
Ego Builder, B 12-25, Psy. dept., it
said.

He kicked at the bird thing. Its
mouth still seemed to grin.

“Everything’s not going to be all
right,” he said. “Everything’s not
fine.” He got his jacket and went to
the door. “You made me see that,
you crazy bird, but you shouldn’t
grin like that about it.”

And he went out to the nearest
police station to tell them about the
girl in the basket.

^Recommended fading

by ANTHONY BOUCHER

The only marked “trend” so far
this year is a quite unexpected one:
the appearance of a surprising num-
ber of short story collections which
are unclassifiable yet recognizably all
in the same category.

To clarify that paradox: These are
books which do not make the usual
category<lassifications of fantasy, sci-
ence fiction, mystery, crime fiction,
guignol, “straight” or “mainstream”
fiction; yet the books have unity,
within themselves and with each
other, in the oddness of their tales —
an oddness best defined by Whit and
Hallie Burnett as “what happens
when the night side of the mind
takes over,”

So far this year this department
has reviewed the Burnetts’ 19 tales
OF terror (Bantam, 35<). Don
Congdon’s stories for the dead of
NIGHT (Dell, 35?“) and Robert M.
Oiates’s the hour after westerly
(Harcourt, Brace, $3.50) — and one
might add, as at least closely re-
lated, Joseph Whitehill’s able baker
AND OTHERS (Little, Brown-Atlantic,
$3.75), though its closest approach to
fantasy is a curious Kafka-like tale of
not-quite-rcal espionage.

Now come two more disturbing

revelations of the night side: Alfred
Hitchcock’s anthology, stories they
wouldn't let me do on tv (Simon &
Schuster, $3.95), and Charles Beau-
mont’s first collection of his short
stories, the hunger and other stor-
ies (Putnam’s, $3.50) — both books
belonging about equally in a fantasy
hbrary, a crime library, or a library
of straight (if off-trail) fiction.

The Hitchcock collection is almost
exactly parallel in virtues and de-
fects, with the Congdon volume —
which was reviewed here last month
with the suggestion that it might
have been retitled most frequently
REPRINTED TERROR TALES. The StOrieS
are almost uniformly flawless . . .
and 16 of the 25 have been previously
anthologized: Lukjindoo, How Love
Came to Professor Guildea, The
Most Dangerous Game, Couching
at the Door . . . But the volume still
deserves high marks for generosity
(over 150,000 words), for the qual-
ity of its hitherto unreprinted stor-
ies, which are (particularly a won-
derful Bradbury) almost on a par
with the classics, and for the fact
that even some of the anthologized
stories are still relatively unfamiliar
— especially Leonid Andreyev’s The

RECOMMENDED READING

too, of AUGUST DERLETH ! THIRTY YEARS

OF WRITING, 1926-1956, a fascinating
30-page booklet on an all but inex-
haustible subject. (And how I wish,
as editor, collector and bibliographer,
that all authors would prepare such
booklets on themselves!)

Philip K. Dick’s first novel solar
LOTTERY (Ace, 1955; still in print,
35^) was a very good one — ^and I
might take this opportunity to re-
mind librarians that a hardcover edi-
tion, retitled world of chance, is
available from England (Rich &
Cowan, 9 6 d.). Now, after two

hasty and disappointing efforts, Dick
easily tops it with his fourth book,
EYE IN THE SKY (Ace, 35^). This is
so nicely calculated and adroitly re-
vealed a work that I’d prefer to say
little about its plot or even its con-
cepts; you should read it, and its as-
sumptions and implications should
hit you unexpectedly exactly as they
are planned. I hope it’s enough to
say that it deals with the alternate-
universe theme; that I’ve never seen
that theme handled with greater
technical dexterity or given more
psychological meaning; that Dick
has emphatically come of age as a
novelist, as well as a technician; and
that this may very well be the best
si. novel even of a year which has
so far produced outstanding books
by Asimov, Bester and Heinlein.

Chad Oliver’s the winds of time
(Doubleday, $2.95) would lend it-
self all too easily to the type of re-
view which synopsizes the plot in
order to prove the book is balder-.

dash. Indeed, I reread the synopsis
on my own file<ard and find it a
little hard to credit that I like the
book itself as much as I do. I doubt
if you’ll quite believe the meeting of
civilizations, across the light-years
and the millennia, that Oliver de-
picts; I’m fairly sure you’ll find the
structure of the book technically im-
balanced and the solution unsatisfac-
tory— and not in the deliberate sense
in which Heinlein first employed
that phrase. Yet it’s hard to name
many more purely readable books in
our field of late. It’s warmly human
(and, for that matter, warmly alien
too — which is part of its point),
nicely observant of our own con-
temporary culture — in short, Oliver,
may have goofed in articulating the
skeleton, but he could hardly have
fleshed it more attractively.

[Only look, Chad, you just do
not, in this day and age, end a book
with;

This was not the end.

This was only the beginning.
Or am I suffering from an excess
allergy to corn .? ]

I could probably make fun of
Charles R. Long’s the infinite
BRAIN (Avalon, $2.75) by plot-synop-
sis; only first I would have to un-
derstand the plot — a feat approach-
ing impossibility on one reading. It
has something to do with a world
35 light-years away which is identi-
cal to this one in geography, history,
language, culture, etc. 99.9% of the
time, with approximately 0.1% com-
plete difference; and its action is

roughly as complicated as the square
(or even cube) of van Vogt. But the
fast-cutting montages make for ter-
rific tempo; suspense is unusually
high (if often anticlimactic in reso-
lution); and it’s all lively entertain-
ment, whether any of it makes
sense or not.

Much the same can be said of
Robert Moore Williams’ doomsday
EVE (Ace, 35^), which is a story of
World War III and “the new people,”
who hope to avert man’s self-de-
struction by operating through “the
race mind.” I’ve never encountered
more unconvincing and inconsistent
mutants (if such indeed they are:
the text is contradictory); but they
engage in fast, vigorous action, with
some of Williams’ accustomed mysti-
cism but little of his heaviness. The
same double-book contains a reprint
of Eric Frank Russell’s effective pur-
suit-thriller, THREE TO CONQUER (seri-
alized as CALL HIM dead).

Nicholas E. Wyckoff’s the brain-
tree MISSION (Macmillan, $350) is.
I’ll venture to guess, the first World-
of-If story ever sponsored by the

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Book-of-the-Month Club; and I’m
curious as to how the Club’s vast
audience will react to its first en-
counter with this challenging and
enchanting genre of fiction. The //
here is a pretty one: if, in 1770,
North had conceived and Pitt en-
dorsed a policy of naming six liber-
ty-loving American earls to the
House of Lords, as a prelim-
inary to arranging the representation
of American boroughs in the House
of Commons.

This is the well-told story of a
cultivated nobleman’s voyage to
America to negotiate such a pro-
posal, and his selection of John
Adams as the first belted Bostonian
earl; and I am wholly convinced
that, in Mr. Wyckofl’s words, “the
results must have been almost pre-
cisely those set forth in the tale.” The
feeling for the truths of history is as
admirable as the pastiche of Eigh-
teenth Century prose; and if the au-
thor has obviously fallen in love-
across-the-centuries with Abigail
Adams, he persuades you that such
a course is inevitable.

Charles Van Doren’s reign as the Heaviest-W inner-on- Any-Single-
Quiz-Show was brief; but its effects may, I hope, be lasting. Other
quiz heroes have been monomaniacs or prodigies; Van Doren won the
affection (not the awe) of the public partly because — aside from his
unquestionable personal charm and gambling spirit — he revealed him-
self as a genuinely cultivated man: no narrow specialist, but a curious
young man whose wide-ranging intellect had touched upon the
damnedest things. This ranging curiosity is (as Cyril Kornbluth
points out earlier in this issue) a characteristic trait of the writing
profession; and it’s not surprising that Charles Van Doren is begin-
ning to follow his family's tradition. To date he has published one
short story (in McCall’s^ and one book, Lincoln’s commando
(Harper, 1957), a biography of Commander Cushing written in
collaboration with Ralph J. Roske. To this brief bibliography we now
add a disturbing vision of a possible, not-too-remote future, "if this
goes on. . .

by CHARLES VAN DOREN

The man walked with his head
down, raising it only from time to
time to check the numbers on the
buildings. His coat collar was turned
up; the cheap material was evidently
not sulBcient protection against the
cold wind. He kept to the outside
of the sidewalk, stepping off into the
street when a party of people passed,
shoving him. He did not shove back.
He kept his left hand in his pocket;
his right hung at his side, blue with
the cold.

32, 34, 36 — he turned into the
large metal doorway, paused
between the photoelectric cells, and
entered the opening door. He mut-
tered his name to the electronic
secretary in the steel and glass lobby
and passed through the turnstile,
continuing down the corridor past
its rows of doors. He glanced at the
etched words on the frosted glass:
manager, sales manager, vice-pres-
ident. The last door on the right,
the machine had said. A woman

passed him, walking quickly. He no-
ticed that she wore the new Water-
Pruf shoes. He wondered for a mo-
ment if he might buy some, but
remembered that the allowance the
SRP gave him would never pay their
rather high price, personnel — last
door on the right. He stood while
the door opened, clenching his left
hand in his pocket, and entered the
small office. Mr. Watson looked up,
smiling.

“Sit down, sit down, Mr. — ” He
checked with a card on his desk.
“Yes . . . hm . . . We have your
letter. A good letter. Now I hope you
don’t mind if we ask you some
further questions.” The man nod-
ded, his eyes on the floor, and Mr.
Watson began to ask questions in a
smooth, sure voice. From time to
time the box on the desk interrupted
with mechanical announcements.
“And of course your papers,” he
ended. The man took them from
the inside pocket of his coat and
handed them, trembling, across the
desk. Mr. Watson examined them,
his eyebrows raised. “Yes . . . hm
. . . Everything seems to be in or-
der.” He checked with the card
once more, and looked up smiling.
“We’ll call you. . . . Oh yes, one
thing of course, before you go — just
a formality. Your hand.? You’ll show
me your hand.?”

The man did not look up from the
paper-strewn desk at which he had
been staring during the interview.
Slowly and unwillingly he drew his
left hand from his pocket and ex-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

tended it, palm up, across the desk.

Tattooed on the palm were the
letters S R, in green.

Mr. Watson did not seem surprised.
“I thought as much. The papers —
they’re a bad job, you know. It’s
quite easy to forge papers nowadays.
I’m aware of that, but it isn’t that
easy. Now look here, you l{now we
can’t hire you? You fellows . . .
Why do you keep on trying? You
know we always ask to see — ”

“Yes,” the man mumbled, contin-
uing to stare at the desk. “I thought
— It’s just that I haven’t had a job in
four years. I need a job ... to make
a new start . . .” His voice trem-
bled and he stopped speaking.

Mr. Watson was not angry. He
leaned forward over the desk. “A
new start. It isn’t possible, you know.
The damage is done. Anyway, I
don’t see why you fellows want
jobs. You keep coming here, you
keep coming everywhere. In a way
I envy you. I mean, not having to
work.”

The man said nothing.

“The Project takes care of you,
doesn’t it?” Mr. Watson went on. He
became indignant. “You should be
grateful. In the Other Country they
shoot fellows like you. We don’t
restrain you, you can go anywhere
you please. We feed you, give you
clothes, a place to sleep. . . . Why,
you’ve got a lot to be thankful for!”
The box on the desk announced
another appointment, and the man
rose wearily from his seat and
walked to the door. “Now I don’t

S R

want to see you back here,” Mr.
Watson said. “There won’t be any
sense in trying. The machine has
your picture, you won’t be admitted
again. I’m sorry,” he added, turning
to the dictaphone and speaking into
it. He glanced up. “You know quite
well . , The man went out of the
door.

It was beginning to be dusk in the
street outside and the cold wind
blew dust in a swirling cloud around
him as he turned the corner. He
shivered, and headed for the neon
lights that announced an Auto-Snak.
He sat down at the counter and
ordered a cup of coffee, leaning for-
ward to speak into the microphone
in front of his place. He watched
without interest while the machine
collected cup and saucer, poured the
black liquid, and placed his drink
before him. “Ten cents,” the speaker
rasped, and he reached in his pocket
and fingered a coin, checked to see
that it was stamped with the regula-
tion SRP across the Roosevelt, and
inserted it in the slot. He glanced
round him and found that he was
alone at the counter, though in a
booth two old men were arguing
about whether the Other Country’s
latest note had been bellicose or not.
The man rounded his shoulders and
withdrew his left hand from his
pocket and laid it, as though it did
not belong to him, on the counter
before him. Slowly he opened the
fingers until the tattooed letters were
visible. He moved the fingers of his
right hand gently over the letters.

marveling as he had done so many
times that there was no tactile evi-
dence that the stigma was there.
With his lips pressed tightly together,
a pale line across his face, he con-
tracted the skin of the palm in an
unsuccessful attempt to make the
letters disappear in the folds of skin.
He could change them to C P by
bringing the little finger forward
and cupping the palm slightly, but
only by closing the hand entirely
could he make them disappear. He
replaced the hand in his pocket and,
having looked around to sec that no
one had been watching, finished his
coffee and walked out into the street.

Lights were beginning to come on
everywhere as he hurried home. He
walked in the street, to avoid the
crowds that filled the sidewalks. A
single man was likely to be an S R
these days (though it wasn’t always
so, of course), and he did not enjoy
being shoved and hearing the re-
marks when he passed too close to
people. He well knew that everyone
was not as reasonable as Mr. Watson,
But Personnel Directors were often
that way, of course, . . . Probably it
was Government Policy. He stopped
at the corner and looked down the
street toward the large Project Build-
ing. There was the usual crowd of
rowdies and teenagers in front of it,
who would push him and yell at
him as he walked up the steps and
waited for the doors to open, and
he thought for a moment of walking
the streets all night, even in his thin
clothes. But it was getting toward

closing time and the crowd was not
as large as it often was; and not as
large as it would be at eight o’clock
when the last stragglers would have
to run a gantlet of curses and blows.
He squared his shoulders and
pushed through the crowd, taking
the abuse without an answering
word, and hurried up the stairs into
his small square room. He sank
down on the bed and stared at the
ceiling. He continued to hold his
left hand clenched into a tight fist
in his pocket.

After a few minutes he got off the
bed and opened the door of the
small cabinet by the narrow window,
took down a glass-stoppered bottle,
and sat down with it at the table.
The acid smoked when he with-
drew the stopper, and he hesitated
for a long moment before upturn-
ing the bottle and pouring a few
drops of the heavy liquid into his
palm. He looked at the clock on the
wall. He was able to endure the pain
for ninety seconds before running to
the sink and washing his hand in
cold water. He fell wearily on the
bed, his fist tightly clenched, his
face drawn in a grimace of pain.
He lay without moving for some
time, and then slowly opened his
hand. There was no disappointment
on his features when he saw that
the acid had had no other effect
than to redden the skin of the palm.
There would be blisters this time,
he thought, but the letters were still
there, a brilliant mocking green.

He lay back with his eyes closed.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

listening to the hum of the clock
and to the cries, faint at this dis-
tance, of the hecklers in front of the
door below. He started violently
when the loudspeaker barked at him,
and after combing his hair — it was
required — he trudged wearily down
the corridor and up the stairs, join-
ing the slowly moving, silent throng
that converged on the dining room.

The meal was soon over, and he
returned to his room, stopping to
collect the day’s SRP-stamped nickel,
dime and quarter from the machine
by the dining room door. He lay on
the bed again, his eyes fixed on the
white ceiling, listening without in-
terest to the faint sounds his stom-
ach made in its digestive processes.

By ten o’clock he could hear no
more activity anywhere in the build-
ing. It was the night, he decided.
He would do it tonight. He pre-
pared everything carefully. He took
from the cabinet the large hatchet
he had bought two weeks before.
He had saved his allowance to pur-
chase it (everything metal was ex-
pensive nowadays). He lit matches
under the blade until the steel was
smoked an even gray-blue. It re-
quired some time to adjust the
tourniquet around his arm: he used
a handkerchief, and pointed a pencil
through the cloth in order to adjust
the tension. When he was ready he
sat down at the table, the hatchet in
his lap, and looked at his hand. The
green letters stared up at him. He
dropped his head for a moment. If
there was anything to wait for, he

S R

would wait. But there was nothing
. , . nothing. He raised his head and
pursed his lips, and lifted the hatch-
et. It did not required a severe blow.

The pain was at first slight and
then terrible. He was fascinated by
the amount of blood. For a while he
forgot to tighten the tourniquet.
When he did so the blood slowed
but did not cease. He began to be
afraid, and pulled wildly at the
handkerchief. The blood would not
stop. He stumbled to the bed, his
hand over the wound, and before
fainting jerked at the emergency
cord on the wall. He heard voices at
the door and then nothing.

He awoke in the hospital; from
his bed he could see the words over
the door: SECURITY RISK PROJ-
ECT, and under them amputation
WARD. A nurse was tending another
patient three beds away, and the
man lay quietly, his eyes staring at
the white ceiling. His hand throbbed
under the covers, and he moved his
right hand to touch the bandage.
He was surprised at the shortness
of his arm, and then remembered
what he had done. He felt no horror
at the act, only a mixture of disgust
and relief. The nurse in her white
gown came up to him and adjusted
the pillows, smiling sourly. But she
was gentle when she turned him
over and washed his back, and then
checked the bandage. “Don’t pick at
it,” she warned. You’ll start it bleed-
ing again. We don’t want any more
trouble out of you.”

“Was I trouble.?” he muttered.

“Of course, it’s always trouble,”
she said, moving to the next bed.
“You fellows . . .” He turned on
his side, away from her. He did not
want to be trouble to anyone. The
bed on this side was empty, and he
stared at it for a long time, going to
sleep and waking again when his
hand throbbed. The nurse brought
him a meal and told him he would
be up the next day. “We haven’t got
the room,” she complained. “You fel-
lows, you think we’ve got nothing
else to do.” But she was careful of
his hand, and told him before turn-
ing out the lights (she left one bulb
burning by the door) to ring if he
needed a sedative.

It was in the faint light of this one
bulb that he discovered (reaching
behind him to press the buzzer be-
cause he could not, after all, sleep
through the pain) the green letters
on his right palm. S R, they said.
There was no change. He lay back
sweating. With difficulty he re-
strained his desire to cry out at her
when she came, softly on her rubber
soles, with the pill and the glass of
water. After several hours he man-
aged to sleep.

The interview with the doctor was
at three in the afternoon, and the
nurse helped him to dress. “You can
do it fine with one hand,” she said
cheerfully. “Don’t worry, it’s hard at
first.” He had trouble with the but-
tons on his shirt, and she had to zip
his fly while he faintly blushed.
“Now don’t be afraid,” she said.

100

when she felt him tremble, “Doctor
won’t bite you. It might be different
if you were the first. But he wants to
talk to you, to try to make it easier.
You’ll find it’s much better to coop-
erate.” She shailed the sour smile
again, and he left her, shifting his
arm in its sling. He wondered how
long he would feel the pain.

The doctor was signing papers,
and without looking up motioned
him to a seat. The man sat down
wearily, his left arm resting on his
lap, his right hand clenched in a fist
in his pocket. The doctor finished,
“Well!” he said. “We’d hoped, with
you ... You waited four years.
We’d hoped that some sort of adjust-
ment . . .” He stopped. “In a way,
I suppose — Well, you know, it’s un-
derstandable. We understand it, you
know. It’s a terrible punishment.
But then it’s a terrible crime! And
this way we don’t have to hate you
and fear you. The hecklers outside,
they don’t understand very well, but
then such people often don’t under-
stand. Yes. What was your crime, by
the way.? What did you do.?” He
looked up curiously. “I don’t have
your record here.”

“That’s all right, you don’t have to
say. I know it’s sometimes hard. But
would you prefer death.? In the
Other Country, you know, they
shoot them, immediately. I think we
have the better way. And, you know,
it’s important how the others, how
we feel. As I say, we don’t have to
hate you. You’re not martyrs, you

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

can’t be made martyrs of. Oh, I’m
not accusing you!” He lit a cigarette
from the lighter on his desk. “It’s
a difficult question though. I’ve
thought a good deal about it. I sup-
pose you have, too. You were a . . .
what was it.? A lawyer? A profes-
sor.? Something professional, I seem
to remember.”

“Yes. I—”

“Quite. I understand. I imagine
it’s not pleasant to think back to
those days. We don’t want to make
the punishment any harder than it
is — and of course the Government
directive . . .” He drew deeply on
the cigarette. “You should thank
God for that Government directive.
Ten years ago, you know, you were-
n’t allowed outside the buildings.”

The man continued to stare at the
floor, flexing the fingers of his hand
in his pocket. He was surprised as
always to discover that the tattoo
marks could not be felt by his fingers
as they moved across his palm.

The doctor went on. “Now we
hope this won’t happen again. We’ve
tried to find some rehabilitation
method, hut without very much suc-
cess, I’m afraid, so far. We’ve got
good men working on it. As I said,
in your case we’d hoped that it
wouldn’t be necessary. But now , . .
well, you’ve got only one hand now,
and you’ll have to find some way of
adjusting to that. Of course all the
men here have only one hand — ” He
stopped when he noticed the puz-
zled expression on the man’s face,
“The nurse didn’t tell you that you’d

S R

101

been transferred? But of course you
were, while you slept. But as I was
saying, we can offer you an artificial
hand. Some of them won’t go to the
trouble of learning to use it. I sup-
pose they think there’s not much
point in it, since they can’t work,
you know. I hope you’ll have a dif-
ferent attitude. In any case you don’t
have to decide now, it’ll be some
time before the . . . stump is strong
enough.” He coughed quietly. “Now
is there anything you’d like to
know?” He smiled faintly. “I’m here
to answer any questions you might
have.” He waited, the cigarette burn-
ing between his fingers.

“I — ” the man began. “What is . . .
the next ... ?” He did not look up.

“The next? How do you mean?”

“The next — after the hand ... ?”

“Oh, of course, quite. Now I said
I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Yes.”

“Well, of course, I might as well
tell you. Why, it’s the forehead. The
forehead.”

“But . . . I’ve seen ... I haven’t
seen anyone with — the letters there.
There are many of them, I haven’t
seen anyone with the letters on the
forehead.”

“No.” The doctor stubbed the cig-
arette out in the automatic ashtray.

which whirred and then turned up
clean again. They can’t bear it.
They can’t bear that.”

“You mean, they ... ?”

“They what?”

“You mean they cut . . . that ... ?”

“Yes, quite. Of course. Now if
you’ll excuse me?” The doctor shuf-
fled through the papers on his desk.
He looked up quickly. “I’ve got a lot
of work to do,” he said, brusquely.
“I’m sorry. I think it would be better
if you didn’t go out for a few days.
Of course we’re not restraining you,
you can go out if you wish. But I
know it’s painful.” He delved into
the papers once more, picked up a
pen, and began signing them.

The man rose slowly to his feet
and moved toward the door. “You
mean . . . ?” He licked his lips.
“They cut . . . that . . . ?” The
doctor nodded without looking up.
The man glanced at him as he
passed through the door. The doctor
had lit another cigarette, and the
smoke curled up around his bowed
head, filling the room with a faint
blue haze, as he scribbled across the
bottom of the papers. He must not
have one of the new Micro-Smuthe
pens, for the point made an unpleas-
ant scratching sound as it moved
across the paper.

THE HORROR STORY SHORTER BY ONE LETTER THAN THE
SHORTEST HORROR STORY EVER WRITTEN

The last man on Earth sat alone
in a room. There was a lock on the
door. RON SMITH

One treasures the reliable writers who are always at their characteristic
best; but one particularly cherishes the surprising ones who have no
fixed characteristics, the wondrous unclassifiables who never write the
same kind of story twice, the Avram Davidsons, the Mildred Clinger-
mans, the Andrew Carves, the Enid Bagnolds . . . and, it would ap-
pear, the Mary-Carter Robertses. Miss Roberts has recently published
an extraordinary novel, little brother fate (Farrar, Straus & Cud-
ahy, 1957), which is a sort of montage of three of the greatest murder
cases of the 1920’s (and of all time); Snyder-Gray, Loeb-Leopold
arid Hall-Mills — an uncompromisingly realistic and analytical book,
in which no one could possibly recognize the author of the following
fantasy. This is imaginative literature of a kind and quality which I
have not encountered since the death of Stephen Vincent Benet; his-
torical American folklore illuminated by warm sympathy, enlivened
by vivid storytelling and memorable prose; and I hope you’ll agree
that Jack Smith's is the most powerful encounter with the Devil since
Dan’ I Webster’s,

When Jac\ Smith Fought Old Satan

hy MARY-CARTER ROBERTS

This story was told me by a minis-
ter, a venerable man of nationwide
repute. He heard it from the country
people among whom he had spent
his youth. They heard it from their
forebears, who had repeated it, par-
ent to child, throughout the century
that stretched between the happening
itself (in 1769) and my clerical
friend’s birth. Many mouths thus
narrated the tale, and all belonged to

godly folk. Obviously, the tale is
true.

The event took place on that scrap
of land that makes a false nose, as it
were, off the southeast corner of
Pennsylvania, a dwindling protuber-
ance with its northern half between
Delaware Bay and Chesapeake and
its southern between Chesapeake and
the Atlantic Ocean. This territory is
composed of one state — Delaware —

WHEN JACK SMITH FOUGHT OLD SATAN

103

and parts of two others — Maryland
and Virginia — but with the parts so
cut off by water from the states’
main bodies as to have no geographi-
cal relationship. In recent years, in-
deed, people have taken to giving the
nose a name of its own, bestowing
a territorial identity on it. They call
it “Delmarva.” That would not have
been safe in 1769, for then geography
was kept in its place, if you under-
stand what I mean. It was properly
turned back at state Hnes. A Virgini-
an in those days would not be taken
dead for a Marylander or Delaware-
an, a Marylander for a Delawarean
or Virginian, or a Delawarean for
anybody but himself. Delawareans,
of the three populations, were un-
doubtedly the most exclusive. They
still are. My story happened in Dela-
ware.

There was this young man, Jack
Smith, and there was the chapel in
Bascom’s Woods, and to the country
people round about it was perfectly
apparent that something was wrong
with both. But everyone was used to
the wrongness of Jack Smith, so the
greater concern was felt for the chap-
el. That structure should have been
the local joy and pride. It was new;
it had been built by the church mem-
bers themselves; it was the first
sacred edifice in those parts; the
people had done the best they could
to make it beautiful as well as sturdy;
they had bought a very fine-toned
bell to hang in its little steeple — and
they had never been able to use the

building at all. This was enough to
cause any pious congregation plenty
of distress — while as for Jack Smith,
he had always been the way he was
and occasioned no general worry.
One person alone cared what hap-
pened to him.

Jack Smith was the kind of fellow
ordinary folk would like to laugh at
— if they dared. His wrongness was
about practically everything ordinary
folk take for granted. He was against
all respected institutions. Nothing
on earth could induce him to touch
his forelock to his betters; he did not
admit he had any betters, though he
was just a poor freeholder who tilled
his few acres with his own hands.

And it was not enough for him to
refrain from the gesture of deference.
He would march by the local bar-
onet with his hat, which he usually
wore at a sideling angle, squarely on
top of his head, to make his attitude
clear. He did not like any gentry, if
it came to that. He called them Pet
Cats and said they all lived by lick-
ing boots bigger than their own,
composing in this way a social sys-
tem in which he. Jack Smith, would
take no part. And since all respecta-
ble people respected, above all things,
religion in some form. Jack Smith
was against religion in all forms. He
named himself an infidel. Most of the
time he was quiet, being busy on his
land, but he carried these wrong-
headed ideas very close to his sur-
face, kept them right under his skin,
as it were, and, with two grogs
in him to set him off, he would vo-

104

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

ciferate. People generally took the
view that he was ridiculous.

This notwithstanding, there was
just a single reason — no more — why
Jack Smith could be despised in his
own neighborhood with safety; he
was a minority of one. His mockers
knew instinctively that they needed
to be in numbers. Jack Smith had a
dash about him that spelled danger.
It kept him from being comfortably
contemptible.

He was twenty when these events
happened, a strongly built bucko,
black as night as to hair and eye,
swarthy of skin, comely of feature
but always scowling, as if he dared
anyone to say he approved of any-
thing. We would call him adolescent
today. In 1769, however, adolescence
had not gotten recognized. Fifteen
was a man then, and Jack Smith had
pushed his maturity still further
along by going to the wars, or such
wars as there were. He had fought
Indians on the frontier and in Cana-
da and had journeyed as far west as
the mysterious Ohio River. He had
seen more of the world than anyone
in his county and he uninhibitedly
expressed scorn for the stick-in-the-
bogs that were his neighbors. Yet it
was not strange that he had returned.
He was a Delawarean, and return is
a Delaware custom.

People had gathered around him
when he came back, but not to learn
where he had been or what he might
have seen. They just wanted to know
if he had changed any. When they
found he had not, but was as wrong-

headed as ever, they were pleased,
and then and there began nettling
him in groups when there was a
chance for it.

These chances occurred mostly at
the Bear’s Claw Tavern, for that was
where he went oftenest. The other
drinkers soon had a program laid
out to use on him. They would wait
until he was muddled and then over-
whelm him with their witticisms,
speaking one after another too fast
for him to answer. He would finally
explode, curse until it was frightful,
and slam out. Then they would all
laugh, feeling very sure that never,
under any circumstances, would
they be so absurd.

The one person who cared what
happened to him was always present
at these shouting matches, but was
prevented by sex and condition of
servitude from taking any part. It
was the bound girl who worked as
the tavern barmaid. This young per-
son had been left on the township an
orphan pauper at the age of six, and
authorities had bound her out to
Horeb Potter, the tavern proprietor,
who had signed articles making him
responsible for her protection, care
and Christian education. That meant
he had put her to work. From day-
light to dark for the past ten years
she had drudged on the Potter prop-
erty, doing everything. But nobody
thought then that such a life was a
hardship; so, not knowing she had
reason to be sorry for herself, Oma
had space in her to be sorry for oth-
ers. She was sorry for Jack Smith.

WHEN JACK SMITH FOUGHT OLD SATAN

105

In her eyes he was handsome and
brave, and certainly superior to his
tormentors. When she saw him over-
come by their numbers, she would
be filled with grieving pity. She was
a tender-hearted thing, anyway. She
mothered the graceless Potter brats
and the chicks in the Potter barn-
yard, and, until recently, such kind
occupations had absorbed all her natu-
ral emotions. Up to the time she saw
Jack Smith, she had never given a
thought to men, except to wonder
occasionally how it was that, in an
evening of drinking, a dozen of them
could talk so much and say nothing
anyone could remember. Now she
would have liked nothing better
than to sit in utter silence while Jack
Smith told her the tale of his adven-
tures, but she hardly formulated this
dream, for dreams were outside her
experience. More practically, she
longed for something to turn him
from his dangerous, wicked ways,
which, she was passionately sure,
were no true part of him.

She was a good girl behind the
bar. She had a light foot, a strong
wrist, a pretty bosom, and fine, silky,
golden hair. Nobody gave her a look,
however — she had no portion, and
she lacked the forward-coming man-
ners that some wenches might have
used to get notice for themselves, be-
ing modest, seldom lifting her eyes,
never her voice. She was pious, too.
She had not been taught to read, but
she kept her dead mother’s little
Bible reverently wrapped in a clean
kerchief, and every night before she

lay down in the haymow where she
was sent to sleep, she said her pray-
ers. Always she prayed for Jack
Smith.

He was barely aware of her. When
he entered the Bear’s Claw, he
would come swelling with anger at
his former defeats and thinking only
of his adversaries and how, this
evening, he would triumph over
them. Sometimes, sensibly, he would
tell himself that the best thing to do
would be just to ignore the gnats,
have his drink and go. But that
never happened. The drink would
unlock his speech and soon one fa-
miliar thing would lead to another.

That was how matters stood when
knowledge of the wrongness at the
chapel took hold on people’s minds
arrd spread first amazement, then
terror, over the countryside.

It started at the very opening
service. The circuit rider was there,
to dedicate the new House of God,
and everyone was eager and excited.
They all came in a throng to the
Woods and waited until the Rever-
end arrived, carrying the shining
key, his good face shining too. He
unlocked the door. Then he, and all
the others, as fast as they could
crowd up and look in, stopped in un-
believing shock. Everything in the
beautiful little church had been
flung into the most shameful dis-
order.

The benches were turned over, the
Communion table too, if such a
thing can be credited, and the pulpit

106

chairs. The hymnals were strewn
along the aisles. Only the lectern, on
which lay the Bible, had been left un-
touched, but right beside it was the
strangest, most sinister evidence of
sacrilegious venom in the place: the
carpet, which had been carefully cut
to fit the lectern’s foot and then
nailed smoothly down, had been
ripped up and flung back all around,
the tacks still in it. It was as if some-
one had come so far, meaning to de-
file the Book itself, and then had
been afraid and had turned a baffled
rage on the floor. But all the win-
dows were found to be securely
locked, just as the door had been.
There was no explanation of the
crime whatever.

The circuit rider, a doughty war-
rior for the faith, was used to fron-
tier rowdyism. He rallied fast.
Straight in he went, calling for the
other men to help him, and, blast-
ing out a strong fighting psalm as he
worked, began to put things to
rights. Soon the chapel was once
again in order. But of course grief
and horror filled all the people’s
hearts where there had been hap-
piness and pride. By then they were
thinking the harm had been done
by some debased rufiian who had
managed to get a false key. That
thought passed through all their
minds, that and the hot promise they
made themselves to find out who the
scoundrel was and see that he got at
least a hundred lashes well laid on,
at the next assize. With this vague
and miserable theory replacing their

FANTASY ANP SCIENCE FICTION

joy, they took their seats. They had
the dedication service, but, if it had
been a funeral, it could not have
been less like the radiant time they
had expected.

They had planned, as a climax,
when the church was finally and
fully consecrated, to have the bell
peal out. In this way the building it-
self, with its own voice, would say
to God that it belonged to Him,
while the givers of the gift sat under
the immaculate roof, listening. To
make this ritual perfect, the leaders
had decided against any preliminary
ringing. They had had reports from
the foundry of the beauty and mel-
lowness of the bell’s tone, and while
hanging the instrument, they had
tapped the metal and had been de-
lighted with the musical resonance.
But not yet had the bell been rung.

Now the moment approached,
and a ghost, as it were, of the earlier
anticipation crept back into the sad-
dened group. They saw Brother
More, who had been chosen ringer
for the first term, rise and tiptoe out,
and after that they sat keyed up,
waiting. It seemed that the voice of
the church, when it sounded, would
sweep the ugly beginning away. But
the voice did not sound. Brother
More came back in, and this time he
was not tiptoeing. He was walking
fast and looking very queer. He ad-
vanced halfway down the aisle,
stopped, lifted his right hand as if he
were taking an oath, and addressed
the minister. “Brother,” he said, “the
bell won’t ring.”

WHEN JACK SMITH EOUOHT OLD SATAN

107

That was too much. The Reverend
came down from the pulpit, coattails
flapping, and every man, woman and
child stood up. He strode headlong
toward the door. Everybody, as he
passed, fell in behind him. They all
crowded around the doors on either
side, craning necks, rolling eyes, star-
ing up into the steeple. They could
see the rope hanging in its proper
place, swaying as a result of Brother
More’s efforts. He was telling the
preacher that he had felt the bell
swing, all right, but that no sound
had followed the swinging. Everyone
thought the ruffians had either muf-
fled the tongue or stolen it away.

The preacher said, “A ladder.”
They brought one that they had used
in getting the bell hung. They put it
in place aivd he started up. As he
was an old man, some of the younger
members offered to make the climb
in his place, but he went on, fast and
spry. When he came down, he too
looked queer. The tongue had not
been removed or muffled, he said.
It was there, he had taken it in his
hand and struck it against the bell’s
side. And no sound whatever had
resulted. When the people heard this,
they lost heart in utter bewilderment.
The men hung their heads, some of
the women sobbed, and the children
began to shriek and howl.

The Reverend did what he could
to comfort the distracted flock. He
said he had heard somewhere that
there were such things as sick bells,
strange as it seemed. He suggested
that they send a message to the

foundry, asking that a bell doctor be
dispatched to them right away. In
the meantime, he reminded them,
they had a church, whereas up to
then they had had none. They must
not weaken because of evildoers. Let
them have the lock changed and
then, if the mischief went on, let
them set a watch.

Those were the things he said, his
air that of common sense and good
cheer. But he was far from feeling
that the words covered the truth of
the matter. He had a powerful pre-
monition that something worse than
bell sickness or mischief-making was
involved here, and he longed to stay
with the beleaguered congregation
and guide it through the danger,
whatever it might be. But four hun-
dred miles of rigidly made appoint-
ments lay before him and he could
not linger, even for a day. So he rode
off, promising himself that he would
make the chapel in Bascom’s Woods
the first object of his prayers.

The people followed his advice.
They had the lock changed and the
smith who did the job was a chapel
member. He saw to it that nobody
got a glimpse of bis work until the
lock was in the door. As for the key,
he made just one and for it he fash-
ioned an iron case with a lock of its
own, so that only the member to
whom the sextonship was entrusted
ever set eyes on the precious object.
And still the mischief continued.

There was never again such a
complete hurly-burly as on the open-

108

ing day, but the insults were not the
less striking for being slighter. The
people would come in and find a
pulpit chair upended on the Com-
munion table. Or the collection bas-
kets would be filled with rocks. Or
the cup o£ the Holy Sacrament
would be standing by the common
drinking-water bucket.

As these atrocities made it plain
that someone had entry to the
church, even though entry was im-
possible, the members took the
preacher’s other direction and set a
watch. Four farmers with muskets
stood guard each night for a week.
All was tranquil and, when the next
meeting day came, nothing was
found disturbed. The congregation
felt better. Some progress, at least,
was being made. Then, right in the
middle of the prayer, there was a
terrible crash and a window burst
in. Burst in — that is to say, all the
broken glass fell inside the room-
But no missile was found to explain
the breaking — no rock, no chunk,
nothing. That window had just ex-
ploded. The people were really
frightened then.

They made no effort to remain in
possession. It was the Devil, they
said. And terror spread over the
land. Old Satan lived in Bascom’s
Woods. You did not have to be an
ignorant or superstitious person to
believe it. Educated people had prac-
tically seen it. The grove was avoid-
ed even in daylight, and soon other
stories about it began to circulate.

Someone remembered an old re-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

port of how, about a century earlier,
a passing schoolteacher had asked
Sir Thomas Bascom, the holder of
the original patent, to let him have
some part of the Woods for a free
school for poor children. But Sir
Thomas had not considered that the
poor deserved educating and had
been additionally affronted by the
notion that they should have any-
thing free, and so had profanely re-
fused. When the suitor had had the
impertinence to inquire what better
purpose the land might serve, the
nobleman had roared, “I’ll let the
Devil have it first!” and had ordered
his footmen to give the upstart a
thrashing.

Now it appeared that the baron-
et’s misuse of the Devil’s name had
marked one of those patiently re-
curring occasions in human annals
when the Devil himself had been
eavesdropping. He had obviously
taken Sir Thomas up on his impul-
sive promise. He had accepted the
gift of Bascom’s Woods. That, any-
way, was what people said. And,
dubious as it seemed from some
points of view, there was this fright-
ful thing about it — it fit the facts
and no other explanation did.

These events tickled the infidel
Jack Smith immensely. He told him-
self the godly had been caught in
their own reasoning at last, and
were they anything but the poltroons
their mothers had unfortunately
borne, they would at least admit it.
But no — ^not they. They were like a

WHEN JACK SMITH FOUGHT OLD SATAN

109

man standing on a plank that is
balanced over a crossbar — if they
took a step in one direction, their
footing would fly up and smite
them, because of God. If they moved
the other way, it would do the same
thing, because of the Devil. And
nothing could make them say they
were not on eternal ground, even
while their teeth chattered as they
spoke.

Jack Smith saw clearly that it was
the alleged personal irruption of the
Devil into Delaware that had put the
issue in so favorable a light from
the viewpoint of an infidel. As long
as the godly could settle every philo-
sophical question in terms of their
own gab, there was not much a real
thinker could bring before them.
They buried it all under saws about
faith and the Scriptures. But they
could not bury Old Horny! He had
already shown them that. One snort
of sulphur from Horny’s nose, and
every one of them was on the run,
whimpering as he went. What a
spectacle!

Eating his bachelor supper in his
snug little farmhouse kitchen, Jack
Smith chuckled over this out loud. It
was the funnier to him because,
himself, he did not believe in the
Devil — either. The Devil was part of
church religion, and, as he could not
accept the church God, neither could
he the church Adversary. The chapel
people, as he saw it, had gotten
trapped in their very first need to put
their dogma to the proof. And at
last, he, Jack Smith, could triumph.

He slapped on his old hat at a
desperate pitch and started for the
Bear’s Claw, and for the first part
of his walk he kept himself warm
and happy inside by reviewing the
scathing things he was going to say
when he arrived. Then he came
to the branch road that led off to-
ward Bascom’s Woods. At the sight
of that, he felt his thoughts change.
Just who was it, he wondered, that
was doing the damage out there,
anyway

He did not doubt that the reports
were true. Too many people
vouched for them. So — who was
responsible.'* Maybe, thought Jack
Smith, the really masterly thing for
him to do would be to catch the
criminal and refute all this Devil
possession nonsense by appearing
with the fellow — a human being, of
course — in person, taken in the act.
What a stroke! How would the
pious look then ? Jack Smith strongly
inclined to the idea for a minute.
He stood still, squinting narrow-
eyed down the road, where already
the grass was growing, since no-
body now would put foot on the
surface, and considered the depre-
dations. He had decided some time
earlier that they were committed by
someone who came down the chim-
ney. But who.?

He ran over the list of low county
characters, as he had it in his mind
— gamblers, wenchers, sots, petty
thieves, runaways — and then shook
his head. None of those men was
low in a way that would make him

do anything with a fixed purpose.
None of them was antireligious eith-
er; on that subject they were ful-
somely conformist. Maybe some
smart bound man, thought Jack
Smith, articled to a penny-worship-
ing chapel member and getting even
the only way he could. Maybe. And
what would happen to the fellow if
Jack Smith collared him and dragged
him in? Well, he might be burned
in the hand with a red-hot iron.
Might be put in the pillory — if he
was lucky. Might be flogged to a
pulp. Might have his ears cropped.
Any of those things could happen
to him. He might be hanged. Sac-
rilege was serious. Jack Smith
walked on toward the Bear’s Claw.

His mood was altered, though.
His happy malice had left him for a
somber anger. He still felt able to
refute the psalm singers, but now
that the time, at long last, had come,
he could not feel the enemy worth
the effort. He entered the tavern,
walked to the bar and laid down
his money for a grog. Not more
than eight seconds passed while he
was doing this, but everyone in the
parlor became aware of him. Always
it was that way with Jack Smith. It
was his dash. He turned other hu-
man beings into a crowd — and suf-
fered accordingly.

The crowd that evening was all
men. To be sure, there was one fe-
male in the room, but she could not
be thought of as a woman, or even
as completely human, since she was
just the bound girl, Oma, washing

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

glasses behind the bar. When she
observed Jack Smith coming in, she
felt her heart give a great hard beat.
When she noticed that he was mo-
rose and scowling, she felt the same
organ melt with grief that he should
ever be other than perfectly happy.
No one she had seen in her life
had been perfectly happy, but per-
fect happiness was what she wanted
for Jack Smith, and perfect happiness
for herself would have lain in bring-
ing perfect happiness to him. She
loved him.

He, for once, gave her a little
attention, though not for her own
sake. Taking that strange truth in —
that he no longer needed to struggle
with the others, that he felt com-
pletely detached from them — he
found' himself, in that room with its
long association of struggle, queerly
lonely, almost forlorn. So when he
saw Oma’s kind little face turned
toward him from the far end of the
bar, he waved at her, just from emp-
tiness. “Ah there, sweeting,” he said,
“You make a poor old man’s eyes
feel better.”

Oma’s skin, at that, went from
milk-white to a glowing, glorious
red, while her eyes changed from
still gentleness to the most dazzling
sparkle. But Jack Smith did not see
these lovely happenings, because at
that second Horeb Potter stepped
between him and the girl. Horeb,
having heard the rallying speech,
decided that the guest was in an
expansive, or spending, mood and
acted to help things along. He did

WHEN JACK SMITH FOUGHT OLD SATAN

111

what was for him almost unheard
of. He stood treat. He set a second
glass down beside Jack Smith’s first,
and said, “Do me the honor.”

Surprised but courteous. Jack
Smith answered, “Your good
health,” and tossed the liquor off.
His new detachment ended tlien
and there.

He listened to the other men talk-
ing. They were discussing the chapel
mystery, of course — nobody in the
county those days discussed anything
else — and, unlike Jack Smith earlier
in the evening, they were not inter-
ested in who — they knew who. They
were suggesting methods by which
the congregation might get the
building free.

Cut down the trees, said the
squire. Make the whole tract open
ground. The Devil wouldn’t — could-
n’t— lurk there without cover.

Hold a great meeting, rejoined the
schoolmaster. Have a month, six
weeks, of unbroken gospel feast.
Services twenty-four hours a day,
great bonfires all night. If necessary,
let the brethren put up tents in the
grove and live there. Crowd the
Devil out.

“No, no,” exclaimed a sharp, eag-
er, breaking-sticks sort of voice then.
It was the notary. He was a little,
mean, cowardly man who took great
pains to be correct in everything he
did and equal pains to find other
people guilty of mistakes. He had a
rat-type face and just now his light
blue eyes were strangely gleaming.
“Not by cutting trees or holding

meetings will we drive the Devil
from our midst!” he proclaimed.
“He does not hide in trees, he does
not fear the godly — the few godly of
this sinful township. His strength
is in the hearts of the sinners, and
we have many, many of those. Let
us drive the sinners forth, and wc
will soon see Satan follow.”

The squire said, politely but a
trifle crustily, “Sinners.? If you mean
we are lax in enforcing our laws,
sir, you are mistaken. We have very
few unpunished crimes.”

“True, true!” cried the notary.
“But how do we punish those
crimes.? With patience, with long-
suffering, with mercy. The other
day I heard of a bound girl in Bethel
township who had been robbing her
good mistress, taking the keys while
her lady napped, opening the cup-
board and helping herself to sugar.
What was her punishment.? Six lash-
es. She should have had three dozen!
That is what I mean, gentlemen. So
merciful are we, the wicked creep
to our county from all over the
colony, and in every wicked heart
the Devil finds a shelter. So now he
too has come.”

The high fast speech and the blaz-
ing eyes had their magnetism. The
others exchanged looks question-
ingly. Maybe he was right, they
thought. Something was amiss. They
had seen the disordered church.
They had pulled the bell rope and
gotten only silence.

“What do you think we should
do?” asked a freeholder.

112

“Revive our good old laws!” cried
the notary, his voice going still high-
er. “Burn! Brand! Crop ears! Cut
off hands! And whip! Whip, whip,
whip! Make the Devil-shelterers suf-
fer!”

“That ain’t the way I fight,” said
Jack Smith.

His voice, ordinary in pitch and
disgusted in tone, swept the notary’s
magnetic moment quite away. Once
more Jack Smith was the chief man
present. Once more the others were
a crowd. And the notary, from a
peak of leadership, felt reduced to
the crowd’s least significant mem-
ber, so that in his heart he bled,
though outwardly he looked as
bloodless as a little rock. The school-
master said affably, “We wouldn’t
expect you to fight the being we are
talking of. Master Smith, I assure
you.”

“I don’t care what you expect,”
said Jack Smith.

“To an infidel, his presence is
probably welcome,” continued the
schoolmaster, and now a faint note
of hysteria edged A is voice, although
he usually had good control of him-
self.

Jack Smith answered, “To (Ais
infidel, his presence hasn’t even been
visible. I don’t belong to your chapel.
So I don’t care. But here’s what I
just heard you people saying. There’s
a hundred and fifty men that do
belong, and there’s one old Devil.
And the only way you men can
figure to lick that Devil is to beat
a poor bound girl that ate some

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

sugar. My remark was — I don’t fight
that way. You can take it or leave it.
I don’t care.”

It is unnecessary to give in full the
charges and countercharges that
were then hurled back and forth
across the Bear’s Claw parlor. Suf-
fice it to report two points — first.
Jack Smith made it perfectly clear
that he did not believe in the Devil,
thereby shocking his hearers far
more than when he had denied be-
lieving in God; and second, the
notary, fairly screeching, invited
Jack Smith to walk through Bas-
com’s Woods that very night, and
Jack Smith accepted.

He not only accepted. He put a lit-
tle flourish on it. He said, “I’ll walk
through the Woods, though it ain’t
on my way home, if I sec Old
Satan, and he’s civil to me. I’ll be
civil too. But if he interferes with
me. I’ll fight him. He won’t see me
turn and run, like a chapel lad.”

He got that far in his speech and
saw young Oma’s eyes fixed on
him — her wonderful, new, blazing,
big blue eyes, frankly adoring. Well,
he thought. And went on to his
flourish.

“I’ll fight him any way he likes,”
he announced. “The fancy. Rassle.
Rough-and-tumble, bite and gouge.
Canuck. Injun. Any style.” And, as
he listed the items of his prowess, he
gave a demonstration with each one.

Saying “The fancy,” he whirled
his fists through a sequence of jabs
and punches that had the distinc-
tion, at least, of being very fast.

WHEN JACK SMITH FOUGHT OLD SATAN

113

Saying “Rassle,” he hooked an el-
bow under an imaginary adversary’s
chin and pressed back until the
watchers fairly heard the bones
crack. Saying “Rough-and-tumble,
bite and gouge,” he removed another
adversary’s eyeballs with a graphic
sweep of his thumbs and bared his
hard, white, handsome teeth in some
ferocious grimaces.

At “Canuck,” he simply gave a
kick; it was too fast for the spec-
tators to make anything of it. But at
“Injun,” he performed his master-
piece. For then he took on a strange,
wild, mysterious expression, bent
over forward from his hips until he
was the shape of a right angle,
bounded into the air and after that
circled the parlor three or four
times, seeming just to float, for when
he put a foot down he did so with-
out making a particle of sound or
even vibration. It was a passage
from the Huron war dance, and, as
its climax, called for a war whoop,
which Jack Smith faithfully sup-
plied.

Then he laughed with the utmost
gaiety, hurled on his old hat, opened
the door and went out. The second
he was standing on the step alone,
he stopped, gathered himself and
took a standing broad jump that
shot him halfway across the road.
He thought he had not felt so good
in a long time, but he did not as-
sociate this goodness with anyone’s
beautiful eyes. He had forgotten the
bound girl and was dehghtfully ab-
sorbed in himself.

She, behind the bar, was praying
for him with all the terror of her
loving heart. He was going into
Bascom’s Woods! “O God, help
him!” she whispered, while she
washed glass after glass. And then
she remembered the wicked, unre-
ligious things he had said, and won-
dered in new fear if God could
forgive such speech. God, as she had
had Him described to her, was dis-
tinctly a Lord of Vengeance. Where
any mercy entered into her concept
of the Divine make-up, it was by
her own involuntary amendment —
involuntary because she could not
long imagine anything without some
kindness in it. Now she hopefully
laid hold of the idea that the Om-
nipotent might be propitiated by a
scapegoat and hastened to offer one.
“Punish me in his place,” she im-
plored. “Punish me — but help him,
please, oh, please!” Jack Smith had
said he did not fight that way. . , .

He marched rapidly along and
turned into the road to the Woods
without a worry. He genuinely did
not beheve the Devil existed. He had
no fear of anything supernatural.
However, when he rounded the
bend that let him see the Woods’s
front — a mile-long stretch of un-
broken heavy timber — he thought
that, since it was a dark night, he
might better be wearing his pistol.
He could run into human interfer-
ence, if not diabolical. But who
would try to rob him? He was
known to be a poor man who never

114

had anything but a few shillings for
his drink. He went on. He entered
the Woods. Then he was reminded,
out of his frontier experience, of
what forest darkness could be. No
moon, no stars and a thick canopy of
heavy-leafed branches overhead. See
the Devil in there — the Devil, who
was reputed to be black? See black
— against black? Jack Smith grinned.
He might pass within two feet of
Old Satan and never know Satan
was there.

He was wrong about that. He saw
Old Satan when he had penetrated
the Woods about half a mile, and
what he saw was precisely a silhou-
ette. Old Satan showed up — blac}{ —
against his black surroundings. He
really did. The reason was — Old
Satan was so much hlac\er.

He was sitting on the ground be-
side the path, facing toward Jack
Smith. Jack Smith saw his horns
curving up on the sides of his head,
saw his long pointed ears, saw a pair
of high shoulders and what seemed
to be the sides of a pretty long
torso, and that was all he could
make out. He had an impression,
however, that Old Satan had his
knees lifted and was clasping them
with his arms. It was Jack Smith’s
woodsman’s eye that took all this
in, an eye that worked far faster than
human thought. So Jack Smith had
seen the Devil, had recognized him
and catalogued his points before the
awful conclusion arrived — Old Satan
was real! There he was!

Jack Smith stood still. He had

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

been an orphan since he could re-
member and in consequence was
used to feeling himself alone — alone
and deprived of something all other
people had. This accustomedness
was a good thing for him now, for
in that moment he felt alone in-
deed. Alone, alone, alone. Old Satan
was real? Then he. Jack Smith, had
been wrong in everything that had
seemed right to him. It was a great
deal to take in without warning.
He went on standing still.

Old Satan spoke first. He said,
“Jack Smith.” His voice was light, a
little wooden and not in the least
terrifying.

Jack Smith replied, “My name.”

“I hear you want to fight,” Satan
continued, without making a move.

“Well, then, come on and fight,”
Jack Smith replied, himself unmov-
ing.

Something switched across the
path in front of his feet, something
like a big and very fast snake. It
made several heavy wriggles,
straightened out and was still. It was
the Devil’s tail. Jack Smith knew
this without understanding how.

“Step over it,” invited Old Satan.

“Horns,” said Jack Smith, “and a
long tail too. You damned old cow.”

He took a very short step forward
and aimed a hard kick. With all the
blackness, he miscalculated, and that
was lucky for him, for, had he
landed his foot as he intended, he
would have broken every foot bone
he had. He grazed the tail as it was,
and the mere touch was enough to

WHEN JACK SMITH FOUGHT OLD SATAN

115

tell him that, despite its limberness
a few seconds before, it was now
like a bar of iron.

“You fight hind-part-to?” Jack
Smith inquired.

He then saw a change in Old
Satan’s silhouetted head. At the tip
of each horn there appeared a very,
very short pointed flame. These were
pale green. The next thing Jack
Smith knew, the Devil was up and
charging.

The green flames were racing to-
ward him, and they were at about
the level of his belly. Evidently Old
Satan was meaning to gore him.
His herd bull had meant to do that
same thing two weeks earlier, when
it caught him in close quarters in
the feed lot. Jack Smith acted now
as he had acted then. He made no
attempt to dodge, but threw his
whole weight forward against the
oncoming Devil, grabbing the horns,
shoving down and then twisting
hard. He doubted Satan’s neck was
stronger than the bull’s, and he knew
that even a neck of great power is
not much good if yanked out of line.

His calculations seemed to be
right. He soon had Satan looking
over his own shoulder, while Satan’s
feet scrabbled hard to keep planted,
the sound reminding Jack Smith
that those feet were hoofs. A few
yanks more, he thought, and bones
should crack. It seemed too easy, and
it was. Jack Smith was next aware
that something was funny about his
arms.

They were numb. They were

heavy. They were almost like dead
— what on earth? Then Jack Smith
realized — his hands, wrists and fore-
arms were terribly cold. He could
not feel a thing with them; he was
keeping his grip just by bringing
his weight down, but the weight
traveled along his arms as if they
were sticks. The reason was that
the little flames in the tips of Satan’s
horns were licking Jack Smith’s
flesh and spreading this frozen tor-
por.

In the nick of time Jack Smith
let go, forcing his fingers to loosen
by sheer will power. Then he sprang
aside, anticipating another charge,
but Old Satan stopped to rub and
feel his neck. He straightened up
and Jack Smith saw he was about
seven feet tall, a foot taller than he
was himself.

Jack Smith spoke. “Put ’em out,”
he said, and waggled his fingers over
his own brow, to indicate that it
was the horns he was referring to.

Satan answered, “Why don’t you
do that?”

“I will,” said Jack Smith. And
spat. Once, twice. The green flames
disappeared.

And Satan, it seemed, could bear
this peculiarly abominable insult
no better than a man, for he made
an angry noise, a sound like that of
a teakettle boiling over on a hot
stove, and then came on in a rush.
This time he did not undertake to
gore, but minced up, dancing and
prancing, his fists lifted, his chin in,
his shoulders weaving and bobbing.

116

all in the smartest style of the fancy.

Now although earlier that eve-
ning Jack Smith had given so flashy
an exhibition of his skill in box
fighting, he really had no wish to
engage in any such bout, for the
truth was he knew little of the
method. Also, he believed that, in
meeting any attack, it was healthy
to introduce an element of surprise.
So he met Old Satan’s scientific pu-
gilism with a wild, savage trick
right out of the American woods,
the vicious French-Canadian lash,
the kick that kills. It is delivered
without warning; it travels like light-
ning, or anyway faster than human
sight can go; it is aimed at the
victim’s chin; and, ideally, it breaks
both jaw and neck. Ideally also, of
course, it is performed by a foot
cased in the French-Canadian log-
ger’s spiked and cleated boot. Jack
Smith was wearing no such gear —
only a Delaware farmer’s shoe, light-
ly armed with a toe of copper.

But he did have the speed and
muscle. He kicked his demonic en-
emy as if he were a demon himself.
He flashed his leg up as if there had
been no such thing as gravitation.
His foot traveled like a weight on
the end of a rope that is swinging
down, gaining speed and force, not
losing it, longing for the climax of
its arc when it should crash against
its target. It was a magnificent lash.

One thing, however, went against
its success. That was the pilch dark-
ness. (The Canucks seldom lashed
in the dark themselves; barrooms

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

and torch-lighted camps were their
sites for this kind of battle; in the
dark they simply stabbed.) So Jack
Smith failed of his target, though
not by a complete miss. His shoe
scraped Old Satan’s cheek and tore
one of his long ears. It brought
blood. Jack Smith could see that —
pale-green blood, the color of those
flames, seeped out of one side of
Satan’s head and ran onto his shoul-
der. It did not shine in the dark,
but it was brightly visible. It painted
the ragged edge of the ear that had
been torn — no thicker than a mem-
brane— against the air behind it.

Old Satan did not resume his fancy
fighting. He took a new attitude, out
of which Jack Smith could at first
make nothing. Slightly, just slightly,
Satan bent his body and every one
of his limbs, spreading the limbs
abroad, holding his elbows out from
his sides, taking a wide-planted
stance on his hoofs. Then he pulled
in his neck, so that his head seemed
to be right on his shoulders, sticking
a little forward. In this position he
looked like just one thing, and Jack
Smith recognized that thing for
what it was, at last.

Ever since he had first glimpsed
Satan sitting there beside the path,
he had been wild in one quarter of
his mind because there was nothing
for him to liken his adversary to.
Old Satan was not like a man,
despite having human speech, erect
posture, hands and the general out-
line of a man’s body. He was not
like a field beast— horns, hoofs, ears

WHEN JACK SJMITH FOUGHT OLD SATAN

117

and tail notwithstanding. But those
were the only creatures that he could
reasonably be compared to, since they
were the only ones whose properties
he shared. Now Jack Smith saw
the real likeness of him and that
turned him sick, for it was the one
member of the animal kingdom that
Jack Smith simply could not abide —
not in sight, in thought, or in memo-
ry— the spider. Hunching there in
the midst of his curved limbs. Old
Satan was spiderUke and nothing
else. Jack Smith even had an idea
that Satan was not standing on his
hoofs at all, but was hanging from a
thread of web. And Jack Smith’s
stomach went clear over.

In this horrible second. Old Satan
addressed him with a sentence of
austere rebuke. He said, “You do not
fight fair.”

Spinning through Jack Smith’s al-
ready spinning mind went the an-
swer he might make: “I don’t take it
out of the backs of bound men and
girls, either.” For at that second, at
the sight of his lifelong, inborn
dread and hate — the insect murderer
— so magnified, so black against pure
blackness. Jack Smith felt all his
hates come together. And Old Satan,
hanging there, was not just a spider
in his eyes but was smugness and
hypocrites, and aristocracy and cow-
ards; and no-justice-for-the-poor;
and the agonies of branding iron,
pillory and gibbet; and the tears of
all the hopeless people — ^and of Httle
orphan boys too. The whole sum of
the bitter emotions that had kept

Jack Smith from ever being a petter
of Pet Cats, and had made him Jack
Smith, infidel, blazed up in him,
directed against the dangler opposite.

And if, previously, he had been
accepting his battle with Old Satan
as a fight between, at least, two male
beings, he no longer did. He could
not conceive that Old Satan had
even the single warm attribute of
sex. Sex was the means by which
men changed, giving life to new
men, sons to come after them — and
Satan did not change. He was always
the same and he had always been
there — the same — for every man who
had drawn breath. The Old One.
Jack Smith did not try to put any
of this clot of concepts into lucid
words. He just roared, “And serve
you right!” and gathered himself
for what might come next.

Then Satan leaped. Still keeping
his spread-out posture, he sailed
through the black air that was be-
tween him and Jack Smith. He
landed hard, chest to chest, and they
went down. Jack Smith of course
being underneath. Satan at once en-
wrapped him, using arms, legs and
tail as well.

Then it was rough-and-tumble,
nothing else. They kneed, clawed,
ground, choked and hammered.
Jack Smith did not remain under-
neath, but neither could he remain
on top. He and Satan rolled, thrash-
ing over a wide expanse. Sometimes
they spun fast, each contriving to
defeat the other’s tactic as soon as it
was applied. Sometimes they lay.

118

seemingly still, for moments, meas-
uring each other’s strength, each
gathering his own resources. This
went on a long time, and all of that
time the two were in a close em-
brace, body against body, sometimes
face against face. Jack Smith in this
manner got an intimate comprehen-
sion of what Old Satan’s physical
being was.

Spiderlike, indeed. Old Satan was
neither warm, as a man would be,
nor cold, as a fish or lizard. He was
just a trifle coldish — and utterly dry.
And he was a prober and sucker in
every particle of him. He was com-
pletely covered. Jack Smith found
out, with very, very short thick fur,
and each hair of this coat had a life
of its own — which was to probe and
suck. Wherever a surface of Old
Satan came in contact with a bare
surface of Jack Smith, the satanic
surface took hold. Each separate hair
on it wriggled to investigate Jack
Smith’s skin and, having satisfied
itself tliat way, went to work, fasten-
ing its tip down, sucking. So that
Jack Smith, as well as his mighty
battle with the spider that was seven
feet high, had also these thousands of
infinitesimal, eager indecencies to
madden him. Ghastly as they were,
they helped him, in a way. They
kept him from sinking into routine,
either physical or mental. They gave
him the spur of horror. He fought
like one inspired, inventing and ap-
plying new tricks without being
aware of it, driven to brilliance by
desperation. Just to get away from

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

the feel of Satan — that was the whole
of his state of mind in this passage
of the fight.

And yet, frantic as he was, he
forbore to use one well-proved, ef-
fective trick, forbore again and
again, for he had repeated chances.
That was the bite. He would, in
need, have taken a beast-devil’s ear
or even tail in his teeth. He would
have taken a man-devil’s hand or
sinew. But the hairy, temperature-
less anatomy of a spider! Jack Smith
fought this part of his fight with his
jaws clenched and his lips pressed
together too.

However, if the bite was omitted
from consideration, not so was the
gouge. Jack Smith presently fixed
his mind on gouging as the best
method of getting free, could he but
attain the necessary position. The
gouge, very simply, consisted in re-
moving an opponent’s eyes. It was
quick, requiring only a few seconds
to achieve its purpose. It was eco-
nomical of effort, for it called for no
strength. It might kill an adversary
or it might not, but that was un-
important. It would end a fight.

At long last Jack Smith got his
opportunity. He found himself on
top with his forearms free and above
his head. The position could change
in a second — Old Satan was trying,
with both his arms, to heave Jack
Smith off his chest, while with his
thick, coldish tail he was tearing at
Jack Smith’s leg hold, sometimes
latching on and pulling, as if the
tail had been a cable, sometimes

WHEN JACK SMITH fOUGHT OLD SATAN

119

flailing, as if with a whip. So Jack
Smith acted fast. He felt over Satan’s
face to the spots where the eyes
should be (up to then he had seen
no light come from Satan’s counten-
ance, nothing except the pale-green
fire and blood) and, finding the eyes
in the normal places, though covered
with furry lids, he instantly set his
thumbs.

The technique then was to push
down, driving the eyeballs back in
the skull a certain distance. After
which, the thumbs should be bent
at the first joint and the direction of
the push changed — from down to
outward. By this very simple se-
quence of motions, if all went well,
the eyes would be scooped forth. It
was an old method of human com-
bat, descending from the Ncander-
thalers by way of the Greeks, Rom-
ans and European mercenary armies
to the American frontier, where it
had been well established for a cen-
tury. Jack Smith was perfectly fa-
miliar with it. He proceeded cor-
rectly. He drove his thumbs down,
Satan’s furry eyelids being under
them.

What happened next was that Jack
Smith’s thumbs went on an unex-
pected distance. For Satan’s eyes did
not wait to be pushed in; they with-
drew, as it were, before the pushers,
retired of their own accord, and
left Jack Smith’s thumbs sticking
down in Old Satan’s skull in seem-
ing vacancy. For a few seconds.
Then Jack Smith realized what was
happening. His thumbs were freez-

ing and the cold was crawling up
his wrists and forearms. It was the
same cold as had struck him from
the flames in the horns, and it acted
the same way, of course. It was so
terrible that it numbed without
warning. Jack Smith’s hands were
half paralyzed before he even felt a
chill. He jerked his thumbs out with
a yell and, in the whole horror that
he felt, he let go of Old Satan com-
pletely and sprang to his feet and
rushed back three or four yards.

Old Satan in no way interfered
with this. He sat up himself, taking
the easy attitude in which he had
been resting when Jack Smith first
saw him. For a second, no more, he
allowed Jack Smith to see his eyes —
two pale-green slits — as if to inform
him that they were uninjured. Then
he patted the ground in front of him
with the end of his tail, giving a
gentle thump. That was all he did.

And Jack Smith, standing still and
breathing loud, feeling the life creep,
with an agony as of death, back into
his hands, but also feeling, on every
particle of his exposed skin, the
loathsome memory of the hairy vi-
olations, vivid and crawling and vit-
al— Jack Smith, at this point, de-
cided to finish this fight Injun. Injun
style was clean. There was no hug-
ging and rubbing in it. There was
no contact at all, up to the last
moment. So the Injun fight would
be his method from now on. He was
a master Injun fighter.

There had been one whole sum-
mer in the north woods when he

120

had fooled some bands of Huron
trackers who, themselves, were re-
liably reported to fool the Devil
daily. So it would take a smart In-
jun to fool Jack Smith — a smarter
one than had yet lived to brag of it
— and a smart devil too. Having
laid this plan. Jack Smith vanished.

He had been standing by a tree
and he became part of the tree trunk.
How? You could not say he stepped.
He glided, maybe. Or drifted. Or
dissolved and floated, if you choose.

Best to say. Jack Smith just was
gone. He had been in one place, and
then he was not in that place, nor
had he moved to any other, so far as
a watching eye could see. Such was
the essence of the Injun stalk.

Jack Smith loved this way of fight-
ing. As soon as he decided to use it,
he underwent that wonderful change
that he had had earlier in the Bear’s
Claw Tavern — he ceased to be a
Delaware farmer; he became the
free, gleeful, savage child that was
bred of the American wilderness.
He was an Injun.

That meant he was the trees, the
undergrowth, the air. He was Bas-
com’s Woods as well as was in it,
for he drew it all into himself, call-
ing on the sub- and supersensory
faculties that men in breeches never
know they have.

This was the way to fight! For
this was the primitive essence of the
fight — fight and hunt combined —
and the sublimation, since it was
fight on a mental plane, mind against
mind, no other force involved. Well,

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

that did not leave him much to fear,
Jack Smith thought, grinning. Old
Satan was no Injun fighter. Jack
Smith, after he blended into that
tree, never had Old Satan out of his
sight (though he never came in line
of Satan’s vision either) and he could
easily perceive that Satan knew not
the first thing about the stalk. Old
Satan showed a really pitiable ignor-
ance.

He first cocked his horned head
at the tree into which Jack Smith
seemed to have entered, telling him-
self, practically out loud, that, as
Jack Smith must have gone behind
the tree, he would have to come out
from behind it sooner or later. When
this did not happen, Old Satan got
up and walked around. He did not
leave the comparatively clear space
in which they had done the rough-
and-tumble, and it was apparent to
the watching Jack Smith that he was
uneasy, for twice he whirled sud-
denly around, fists lifted, evidently
expecting Jack Smith to be creeping
up behind. Finally he sat down
again, but remained edgy; Jack
Smith could tell that by his tail,
which swftched back and forth in
nervous short arcs. Jack Smith, in the
meantime, was never more than
fifty feet away. His plan was to get
Old Satan completely baffled, but not
give him time to conclude that his
opponent had run off, and then
come in and cut Old Satan’s throat.

His weapon for the blow was not
much. It was a little clasp knife that
he carried in his pocket. It had a

WHEN JACK SMITH FOUGHT OLD SATAN

121

single blade and that was no more
than two inches long. It was razor-
sharp, however, and two inches, if
applied accurately and fast, would
be enough to split the big vein that
was in any neck that was a neck at
all, human or devilish. Jack Smith,
gliding through the pitch darkness
and seeming to be part of it, felt
calmly sure of himself. He pro-
longed the stalk about ten minutes
and then closed in.

He came across the little clear
space that was between him and
Old Satan, as silent as a cloud. He
got up to Satan’s back. The tail,
switching its little arcs, was laid on
the ground to Satan’s right. That
was a good thing. Jack Smith aimed
to strike on the left — the vein was
there. He struck. He drove his blade
in its full length, stabbing Satan’s
neck just about under the left ear
and then dragging hard toward the
front. The vein parted. Jack Smith
knew this because at once the pale-
green blood spurted up, looking like
the jet of a fat fountain; but Jack
Smith could not stop. So violent
was his hatred, he dragged on and
achieved a half decapitation. Then
Old Satan’s head clunked down on
his chest and Jack Smith quit cut-
ting because he had to. He took his
fingers from the knife handle, leav-
ing the blade in the gash, and started
to rise up to expel the great
“Ah-h-h!” of victory. The “Ah-h-h”
did not follow.

Instantly, before he got his back
straight, he was thrown into a frenzy

by Old Satan’s blood. It had
drenched his hand, wrist and sleeve,
and now he felt it act precisely as
the hair had acted. It seemed to
separate into an infinity of particles,
each of which had the hairs’ hideous
investigative propensity and the re-
volting sucking mouth. Instead of
the “Ah-h-h,” Jack Smith expelled a
shout of disgust and rage. He flung
off his coat, he ripped out his shirt
sleeve, he grabbed a great handful
of leaves and scrubbed at his skin
until at last he felt clean again.
Not until he had done all this did he
pay the slightest attention to Old
Satan.

Then he saw that Old Satan was
clear down, prostrate. He was lying
on his back. The blood, spurting
from his neck, had made a puddle
all around his head and shoulders.
Against the pale green. Jack Smith
could plainly see the hairy, horrible
and sinewy formation of his late
enemy. He could also see the handle
of his little knife, still stuck in Sat-
an’s neck. He stood still and sighed.

Then Old Satan spoke. In a tired,
bored, very faraway voice, he said,
“You cannot kill me. Jack Smith,
for you are just a man. I am Evil-in-
the-World, and no man can destroy
me. I have played out this nonsense
of a fight with you to teach you
that. I have let you use all your
tricks, and have let you seem to win.
So that you would learn that you
cannot win. A blade in my throat.?”
Old Satan languidly lifted his tail
toward his head and let a loop slide

122

over the handle o£ Jack Smith’s
weapon. The tail then plucked the
knife from the wound, carried it to
Old Satan’s left chest and drove the
steel in there. After which the tail
seemed to collapse. It simply flopped
back on the ground. Old Satan went
on, exhaustedly talking.

“In my throat, in my heart, in me
anywhere, a human weapon is im-
potent. Jack Smith, I tell you again;
a man cannot fight the Devil. But
once in a while, once in a great,
great while, far too infrequently for
my needs and purposes, there is a
man who can be a devil. A man
who can rise so high. You are such
a one. You can be one of my helpers
and friends. With me, you can throw
confusion into human hypocrisy.
You already hate it. You have al-
ready cut yourself off from it. Now,
with me, you can confound it. Come
on.”

Jack Smith thought how those
words fit into every story he had
ever been told about Old Satan. Old
Satan tempted people. He made them
great promises and then dragged
them off to Hell. Anybody knew
that. But why, Jack Smith asked
himself, did Satan, trying now to
win a recruit, put on so poor a
showing? Why lie there, weltering
in his blood, talking in a beyond-
the-grave voice, while telling Jack
Smith what a great future he could
offer him? If, as he said, he really
was unscathed? Why? Jack Smith
squinted hard at the flat, sunken
form before him. The green blood

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Still flowed — what a lot the creature
had. Were the jets slowing a little
now? Jack Smith tried to believe
they were. And Old Satan, making it
clear that he read Jack Smith’s mind,
thought for thought, gave a demon-
stration.

Out of his chest there rose an-
other Old Satan, just like himself,
except that he was uninjured and
full of vigor. And behind this second
Satan came a third, and a fourth and
fifth, and so on, until a throng of
them filled the clear space full. Ev-
erywhere Jack Smith looked he saw
horned heads, high shoulders, long
bodies, pointed ears. None of these
new Devils did anything. They just
stood. For perhaps a minute they
stood, while the green blood spurted
from the DeviLon the ground. After
which, as they had arrived, so they
departed. One at a time they sank
down into the first.

“I am Evil-in-the-World, and no
man can destroy me. Jack Smith,”
said Old Satan again. “Come on.”

Jack Smith knew then exactly
what he had to do — and he did it.
He spun on his heel and walked
straight away from the thing before
him, walked straight indeed, walked
hard and fast, for he was filled
with consummate purpose. Right in
his path stood an oak, the biggest
oak in Bascom’s Woods, one that
was named the Five Hundred Year
Tree, because people said it must be
so old. Jack Smith did not swerve
as he approached it. He did not
slow down, either. He walked plumb

■WHEN JACK SMITH FOUGHT OLD SATAN

123

into the monster trunk and shoved
his breastbone against it and spread-
eagled his arms, which, at their full
extent, did not cover a fifth of the
tree’s circumference.

And so standing. Jack Smith bel-
lowed out, in a voice that rang
through Bascom’s Woods from one
end to the other, the very prayer of
all human prayers, the basic, desper-
ate petition that lies in every simple
heart when it has seen the determin-
ation and elaborateness of evil. "O
God’’ he roared, “HELP me!’’ And
then he planted his feet with all his
might, did as much as he could
with his arms to grasp that great
wall of bark, and heaved. The tree
came up.

Jack Smith felt its profound center
root move first. That gave, then
rocked and swayed. The vast root
mat that was above it then relin-
quished the unstirring mold in
which it had lain for half a mil-
lennium, and finally out sprang the
long root arms that stretched along
the surface, waving and flying like
pennons of victory. And to the
sound of a thunder too vast to be
imagined, Jack Smith found himself
standing with the Five Hundred
Year Tree resting on his shoulder.

It was an awkward thing to hold,
and he had to act fast to keep it in
balance. He did. He passed the trunk
rapidly along from hand to hand
until he grasped it about thirty feet
short of the top. Then he swung
the whole tree back, over his shoul-
der, as if he were using an ax, and

then forward, and then down. With
all the fire in his heart he made his
aim, and with the same fire he ex-
pressed it. “Get!” he screamed. He
hit. The awful weight of the central
mat came down exactly where he
sent it — smack — on the bleeding
spider. And then Jack Smith was
there alone, the tree trunk in his
hands, himself the center of a cata-
clysmic commotion.

Nothing visible was moving, but
through the length and breadth of
Bascom’s Woods, and of the whole
township and county, and probably
of all Delaware, if it comes to that,
the sound waves were leaping and
pitching and soaring like the surface
of the sea at the height of a hurri-
cane. The crash of the oak had
been simply indescribable. It was so
big that Jack Smith could not hear
it; he became aware of it only when,
finally, it ended and there was quiet
once more. And then, so stunned, so
numbed was he, he might not have
apprehended silence itself, except
that this silence had a very peculiar
little noise moving through it. It
was like the singing of a bullet, be-
ginning loudish but rapidly rushing
away, yet, from both its direction
and a certain thickness in its tone,
making plain that the object produc-
ing it was traveling not through
air but earth, straight down. And
Jack Smith understood what the ob-
ject was. It was Old Satan, heading
home — Old Satan diving for Hell so
fast he made the rocks hum with
his passage. Fainter and fainter grew

124

die note,- dwindled to a last, slim,
V-shaped g-l-o-o-c-k, and stopped.
After that, into Bascom’s Woods the
real quiet came.

Jack Smith let the trunk slide out
of his hands. It sank gently to the
ground. He followed its motion. His
knees began to bend and went on
bending until they brought the full
length of his shins to the earth. He
did not stop at that. He kept on
sinking until he was sitting on his
heels. All the time his eyes stayed
fixed on the vast hole made by the
uprooting.

At last Jack Smith spoke. “You
did,” he said.

More quiet followed, a period of
the kind that can never be measured
on a clock. Then, sensibly, pleasantly
and cheerily, the little chapel bell be-
gan to ring. Jack Smith knew no
human hands were pulling on the
rope. He looked toward the sky
and, very, very humbly, he touched
his forelock. And the sun came up.

Oma and Jack Smith were mar-
ried soon after that night. Theirs was
the first wedding in the chapel. The
good people of the township (for of

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

course there were good people there,
as Jack Smith himself could see
when he looked at what was before
his eyes instead of what was stored
in his mind) made up a purse for
them, in gratitude. He at first re-
fused the gift, as contrary to his in-
dependence. But Oma, the bride,
plucked his sleeve and whispered,
and he accepted. They used the
money to buy freedom for the bound
girl who had sampled her mistress’
sugar.

Jack Smith and Oma had a long
happy life together. For seven years,
to be sure, they were separated; that
was when he went to fight in Gen-
eral Washington’s War, the conflict
that ensued when Delaware decided
to expel the British Empire — and
did. Despite the interruption, how-
ever, the pair contrived to have a
good many children. You will find
Smiths all over the United States
today, fine citizens too— but, if de-
scended from farmer-soldier Jack
and bound girl Oma, making noth-
ing of it. For those Smiths are from
Delaware and Delawareans are, as I
said at the beginning of this story,
exclusive people.

You are probably reading this just after the Memorial Day weekend.
And ids only about a month till the Fourth of July, And underneath
all of your pleasure in these national celebrations, there may be a
certain haunting doubt, a question that keeps nagging at you. . , ,

The Holiday cM.an

by RICHARD MATHESON

“You’ll be late,” she said.

He leaned back tiredly in hb
chair.

“I know,” he answered.

They were in the kitchen having
breakfast. David hadn’t eaten much.
Mostly, he’d drunk black coffee and
stared at the tablecloth. There were
thin lines running through it that
looked like intersecting highways.

“Well?” she said.

He shivered and took his eyes
from the tablecloth.

“Yes,” he said. “All right ”

He kept sitting there.

‘‘David," she said.

“I know, I know,” he said. “I’ll be
late.” He wasn’t angry. There was
no anger left in him.

“You certainly will,” she said, but-
tering her toast. She spread on thick
raspberry jam, then bit off a piece
and chewed it cracklingly.

David got up and walked across
the kitchen. At the door he stopped
and turned. He stared at the back of
her head.

“Why couldn’t I?” he asked again.

“Because you can’t,” she said.
“That’s all.”

“But why?"

“Because they need you,” she said.
“Because they pay you well and you
couldn’t do anything else. Isn’t it ob-
vious?”

“They could find someone else.”

“Oh, stop it,” she said. “You know
they couldn’t.”

He closed his hands into fists.
“Why should I be the one?” he
asked.

She didn’t answer. She sat eating
her toast.

“Jean?”

“There’s nothing more to say,” she
said, chewing. She turned around.
“Now, will you go?” she said. “You
shouldn’t be late today.”

David felt a chill in his flesh.

“No,” he said, “not today.”

He walked out of the kitchen and
went upstairs. There, he brushed his
teeth, polished his shoes and put on
a tie. Before eight he was down

125

126

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

again. He went into the kitchen.

“Goodby,” he said.

She tilted up her cheek for him
and he kissed it. “’By, dear,” she
said. “Have a — ” She stopped
abruptly.

“ — nice day?” he finished for her.
“Thank you.” He turned away. “I’ll
have a lovely day.”

Long ago he had stopped driving
a car. Mornings he walked to the
railroad station. He didn’t even like
to ride with someone else or take a
bus.

At the station he stood outside on
the platform waiting for the train.
He had no newspaper. He never
bought them anymore.

“Mornin’, Garrett.”

He turned and saw Henry Coul-
ter who also worked in the city.
Coulter patted him on the back.

“Good morning,” David said.

“How’s it goin’?” Coulter asked.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Good. Lookin’ forward to the
Fourth?”

David swallowed. “Well . . .” he
began.

“Myself, I’m takin’ the fainily to
the woods,” said Coulter. “No lousy
fireworks for us. Pilin’ into the old
bus and headin’ out till the fireworks
are over.”

“Driving,” said David.

“Yes, sir,” said Coulter. “Far as wc
can.”

It began by itself. No, he thought;
not now. He forced it back into its
darkness.

“ — rising business,” Coulter fin-
ished.

“What?” he asked.

“Said I trust things are goin’ well
in the advertising business.”

David cleared his throat.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Fine.” He al-
ways forgot about the lie he’d told
Coulter.

When the train arrived he sat in
the No Smoking car knowing that
Coulter always smoked a cigar en
route. He didn’t want to sit with
Coulter. Not now.

All the way to the city he sat look-
ing out the window. Mostly he
watched road and highway traffic;
but once, while the train rattled over
a bridge, he stared down at the mir-
ror-like surface of a lake. Once he
put his head back and looked up at
the sun.

He was actually to the elevator
when he stopped.

“Up?” said the man in the maroon
uniform. He looked at David stead-
ily. “Up?” he said. Then he closed
the rolling doors.

David stood motionless. People be-
gan to cluster around him. In a mo-
ment, he turned and shouldered by
them, pushing through the revolv-
ing door. As he came out, the oven
heat of July surrounded him. He
moved along the sidewalk like a
man asleep. On the next block he
entered a bar.

Inside, it was cold and dim. There
were no customers. Not even the
bartender was visible. David sank

THE HOLIDAY MAN

127

down in the shadow of a booth and
took his hat off. He leaned his head
back and closed his eyes.

He couldn’t do it. He simply
could not go up to his office. No
matter what Jean said, no matter
what anyone said. He clasped his
hands on the table edge and
squeezed them until the fingers were
pressed dry of blood. He just
wouldn’t.

“Help you.^’’ asked a voice.

David opened his eyes. The bar-
tender was standing by the booth
looking down at him.

“Yes, uh . . . beer,” he said. He
hated beer but he knew he had to
buy something for the privilege of
sitting in the chilly silence undis-
turbed. He wouldn’t drink it.

The bartender brought the beer
and David paid for it. Then, when
the bartender had gone, he began to
turn the glass slowly on the table
top. While he was doing this it be-
gan again. With a gasp, he pushed
it away. No! — he told it; savagely.

In a while he got up and left the
bar. It was past ten. That didn’t
matter, of course. They knew he was
always late. They knew he always
tried to break away from it and
never could.

His office was at the back of the
suite, a small soundproof cubicle fur-
nished only with a rug, a couch and
a small desk on which lay pencils
and white paper. It was all he need-
ed. Once he’d had a secretary but he
hadn’t liked the idea of her sitting

outside the door and listening to
him scream.

No one saw him enter. He let
himself in from the hall through a
private door. Inside, he relocked the
door, then took off his suit coat and
laid it across the desk. It was stuffy
in the office so he walked across the
floor and pulled up the window.

Far below, the city moved. He
stood watching it. How many of
them.? he thought.

Sighing heavily, he turned. Well,
he was here. There was no point in
hesitating any longer. He was com-
mitted now. The best thing was to
get it over and clear out.

He drew the blinds, walked over
to the couch and lay down. He fussed
a little with the pillow, then
stretched once and was still. Almost
immediately, he felt his limbs going
numb.

It began.

He did not stop it now. It trick-
led on his brain like melted ice. It
rushed like winter wind. It spun
like blizzard vapor. It leaped and
ran and billowed and exploded and
his mind was filled with it. He grew
rigid and began to gasp, his chest
twitching with breath, the beating
of his heart a violent stagger. His
hands drew in like white talons,
clutching and scratching at the
couch. He shivered and groaned
and writhed. Finally, he screamed.
He screamed for a very long while.

When it was done, he lay limp
and motionless on the couch, his
eyes like balls of frozen glass. When

128

he could, he raised his arm and
looked at his wrist watch. It was
almost two.

He struggled to his feet. His
bones felt sheathed with lead but he
managed to stumble to his desk.

There he wrote on a sheet of pa-
per and, when he was finished,
slumped across the desk and fell in-
to exhausted sleep.

Later, he woke up and took the
sheet of paper to his superior who,
looking it over, nodded.

“Four hundred eighty-six, huh?”
the superior said. “You’re sure of
that?”

“I’m sure,” said David, quietly. “I
watched every one.” He didn’t men-
tion that Coulter and his family
were among them.

“All right,” said his superior,
“Let’s see now. Four hundred fifty-
two from traffic accidents, eighteen

from drowning, seven from sun-

★

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and SCIENCE FICTION has

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FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

stroke, three from fireworks, six
from miscellaneous causes.”

Such as a litde girl being burned
to death, David thought. Such as a
baby boy eating ant poison. Such
as a woman being electrocuted; a
man dying of snake bite.

“Well,” his superior said, “let’s
make it — oh, four hundred and fifty.
It’s always impressive when more
people die than we predict.”

“Of course,” David said.

The item was on the front page of
all the newspapers that afternoon.
While David was riding home the
man in front of him turned to his
neighbor and said, “What I’d like
to know is — how can they tell?"

David got up and went back on
the platform at the end of the car.
Until he got off, he stood there lis-
tening to the train wheels and think-
ing about Labor Day.

★

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